


malleus maleficarum

by dykeula



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Abused Sam Winchester, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Attempted Sexual Assault, Boy King of Hell Sam Winchester, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Psychological Horror, Sam Winchester-centric, Stanford Era (Supernatural), Torture, Witchcraft, i dont really believe in the whole 'dubcon' title but yea, sam gets puth through the ringer in this one, the dean sam is kinda small but i'm planning on expanding that in future chapters, trauma is a prominent character in this fanfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-11-13 16:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18034991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dykeula/pseuds/dykeula
Summary: "We have a job for you."Wherein Ruby is not the first, or last, demon that Sam Winchester falls for. Also not the first that falls for him, or the first to worship him.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me preface this by saying that this is not a romantic shippy fanfiction. At all. This fanfiction is in the POV of a demon emotionally abusing Sam. If you think this is cute please reevaluate why you think this genuine horror flick is romantic.  
> I can't believe I'm out here writing a supernatural fanfiction in the year of our lord 2019, but I was rewatching S1-5 the other day and I couldn't help it. This will be posted in parts because I love me some good hits on my works. Also the reason the quotation marks are so weird is because my dumbass german laptop refused to change its layout to accomodate the story's language, but I've decided to roll with it.  
> Also stay for the end credits for some fun historical facts about german witch trials (and also the translation of all the random german sprinkled in there).

 

> "But devils are subservient to certain influences of the stars, because magicians observe the course of certain stars in order to evoke the devils. Therefore they have not the power of effecting any change in a corporeal object, and it follows that witches have even less power than the demons possess. For devils have no power at all save by a certain subtle art. But an art cannot permanently produce a true form. Therefore the devils for their part, making use of the utmost of their craft, cannot bring about any permanent cure - or permanent disease. [...] Moreover, the stronger can influence that which is less strong. But the power of the devil is stronger than any human power. There is no power upon earth which can be compared to him, who was created so that he fears none."
> 
> \- The Malleus Maleficarum, Heinrich Kramer (1486)

 

_We have a job for you._

Those six words are the first interaction with higher ups he‘s had since.... well, since the early 20th century (and how much fun that had been, torturing torturers who were convinced their mission was god sent when really all they had to do was point their direction the other way is always such a treat). He likes to think of himself as a connoisseur of the arts, but he‘s no Alistair. The biggest action he gets nowadays is the occasional politician or two.

Well, it‘s not technically _interaction_ so much that it is a gigantic hand caressing the tissue of his insides and squeezing, making him stop momentarily on the painting he was just about to finish on his rack and lose his footing. No one around here really has bodies to command unless they travel topside, but the human mind is fickle and, to be honest, quite stereotypical. What is really just a damned smokey soul smitten to hell and back (literally) through the centuries with no discernible shape is now a man in a suit. Always stick with your style.

The damned fly on his rack is still screaming, always screaming, as if anyone here has ears to hear its cries, or vocal chords to respond. He was hoping its useless outer shell might be cracked open to reveal the shiny black jewel underneath but so far nothing. Humans just aren‘t as much of the monsters that they used to be.

Right now though, all of that is just static noise, unimportant. Because he _knows_ that voice, or more than that, he knows those _hands_ , knows every wrinkle and every bruise like an old painting. Knows the power of the grip like a child recognizes its mother‘s touch. It‘s overwhelming, after all these years. Centuries. Eons.

„Azazel,“ he exhales, some of the fly‘s blood flowing from his cheeks into his mouth. The blood mixes with the tears leaking through his damned eyelids, metallic and sweet. The urge to follow, to _serve_ is so overwhelming he falls to his knees. „It‘s been so very long.“

_You have proven to be useful in the past, but do not be a fool and presume my calling as sentimentality. This is much more than you pathetic ape can comprehend. If you fail there will be no crevice, no rabbit hole that my hound won‘t sniff you out from. Remember, you were human once. I can make you relive that. But if you succeed, it will be paradise on earth._

Well, the threat of torture kind of dampens his mood a little bit, but nonetheless his insides are buzzing with excitement. „I won‘t disappoint you, mein Lehrmeister.“

_You have once already, remember?_

If he were human, he would start sweating right now. The bitch has stopped screaming and has switched to wet gurgling instead as his razor cuts through its vocal chords. (Sloppy. Never again.) „That was a long time ago. I have matured since then. I won‘t presume humanity‘s rotten core again.“

The resulting laughter inside his brain feels a lot like harrowing thunder. _Not that long ago to me. But actually, that is exactly what you will do._

Corruption? Playing the little devil on someone‘s shoulder? _Him?!_ „I ... I don‘t understand.“

_No, you don‘t. But you will. Await my orders._

And with that he‘s picked up from his circle of hell, the place he‘s called home for centuries and spat out onto earth‘s hemisphere.

 

\--

 

He‘s in the Americas. Well, that‘s a first. So is the fact that instead of being able to choose his meat suit like he‘s come to known, he‘s catapulted right into some poor guy‘s bedroom. The human‘s asleep, half naked, mouth open in a way that just screams **„PLEASE POSSESS HERE“** in big neon signs.

The first few seconds of possession are always the hardest, for the host and the demon. Human souls are kind of hard to grasp at first try, especially if your method is rusty from centuries of disuse. Still, unconsciousness always makes it easier. Black smoke flows through the open mouth, synthesizes, entering the squishy organ in the middle of the chest and then starts pumping sulfur through veins, like oiling up a machine. For humans, it‘s unbearable. For demons? Exhilarating. There‘s nothing quite like it.

The feeling of intrusion is what finally makes the gears inside the guy‘s brain grind again, though slowly. _Whaa- What‘s happ‘nin t me?_ a groggy thought occurs.

The meat suit starts grinning, pink flesh stretched an obscene amount, and then brown eyes turn black and it‘s all over. Goal. 1:0 Him vs humanity.

„Not what, Brady,“ he says, experimentally stretching out his vocal chords. Memories start flowing behind his eyelids, like a silent film of Tyson Brady‘s Biggest Hits (Brady. He likes that name. Better than his last one), and with it human expressions and mannerisms. 21th century English vocabulary (the insults were better during his stint in the Middle Ages). The concept of a task, ready to be executed. „It‘s more of a ‚who‘, actually.“

Like riding a bike.

 

\--

 

_HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP HELP ME HELP ME ANYONE SOMEONE PLEASE HELP ME OH GOD_

„Hey. We don‘t use the G swearword around here. It‘s very unbecoming of a young gentleman such as yourself.“

_Fuck you._

Brady grins. (And he is Brady now, not just a glob of smoke but an actual person. Well. person like being.) „Better.“ Humans and their ego maniacal belief that the guy upstairs gives a crap about the toys He created during a bender on a whim. Some of them have the right idea, though. ‚Toy Story‘ was pretty accurate. Maybe the writer was a prophet.

_What do you want from me?_

Is the guy _crying_?! Pathetic. The sheer magnitude of the emotion is enough to grab the steering wheel for a second and squeeze his eye‘s tear ducts, though. Brady lets them wet his white shirt. „Oh, what does a gal like me ever want from a lad like you? Girls just wanna have fun, of course. The sticky, satanic kinda fun.“

_You‘re insane. I‘m insane. None of this is real._

It‘s kinda sweet, the way he still tries to wriggle the fingers in his left hand like he has any authority over them anymore. Brady lets him, just for a little bit, just enough to see a flicker of hope appear inside his brain‘s synapses, the dark corner he pushed him into. „Not yet. But you‘ll be soon enough, don‘t worry. No one really survives this long enough to tell the tale. For now, just enjoy the ride.“ He‘s kinda speaking out of his ass here, not like he ever had the opportunity to ride topside in this form before. But oh well, what the ape doesn‘t know won‘t hurt him, and the power mighta just gone to his head a little. Just a smidge. He‘s fine, though. Eyes on the prize.

„Now, I‘d really love to chat more, but daddy‘s got some grown up stuff to do.“ Eyes turn back to black and he raises a metaphorical hand, coils it around the still remaining sliver of soul and squeezes for good measure. This is just like his rack, only more colorful and creative. It‘s like being gifted a shiny new collection of oil colors to mess around with. Christmas. „And your pathetic whimpering inside my skull is _really_ killing my vibe here. I‘m doing you a favor here, kiddo. I‘ve seen your life and it ain‘t exactly blockbuster worthy. This is just for the best, better for the world even.“

_What no please don‘t!_

„Gute Nacht, Tyson. Was nice knowing ya.“ The hand is growing tighter, into a fist.

_wAIT STO-_

And then _finally_ : the quiet. Absolute, refreshing silence. He really doesn‘t understand how humans do it, what with all those monstrous creatures dying to get inside their brain juice and fill up their thoughts. This experience has really made him appreciate human‘s resilience more.

Next time, he‘ll squash the soul like a fly before they can even start complaining. Short and efficient. He‘s on the clock here.

The greyhound bus taking him away from break with his boring family (he left them alive, so as to not raise suspicion, but he‘ll come back for them later. Dessert) to the glitzy life of a student in Palo Alto. He can‘t wait to meet his pupil.

Samuel Winchester really has no clue what‘s coming to him.

 

\--

 

The first few days back are a frenzy. Brady will be the first to acknowledge his many faults and he‘s gotta admit that he‘s been known to indulge in the pleasures of the flesh from time to time. He was recruited by Azazel in a damn tavern for fuck‘s sake (the beer was better back then though), so what if he lost track of the mission?

To be perfectly honest, he‘s having second thoughts. He met the guy, the so called genius named Sam Winchester 2 days ago and he‘s not impressed. On a scale of malevolence from one to the Spanish Inquisition, Winchester‘s at a zero. The first time he greeted him from break, the bear hug and puppy dog eyes that welcomed him were almost enough to make him throw up. Minus ten. He doesn‘t understand humanity‘s equation of Canadians equals nice people (most white Canadian settlers back in the day were quite monstrous, and they didn‘t even need hell‘s training wheels to ride.) but after doing the math, Winchester must be Canadian.

It‘s pathetic and not at all what he envisioned his first trip back to be like.

Azazel has effectively ghosted him from all ways of communication as well. A stark contrast to the way he used to be the creature‘s right hand last time. (And whose fault is that?) If this is all just a big joke, he better not be the punch line.

 

\--

 

_Mission report._

„Ooh, fuck.“ He did _not_ expect to hear back from his master after a particular bad blender full of booze and frisky women (and men). „Jeez, warn a guy next time, would ya? Almost gave me a heart attack.“ His head is effectively killing him. Demons can‘t actually get drunk unless they really _really_ set their minds to it, and damn it if he didn‘t try.

 _You don‘t have a heart. All you are is the thing_ _**I** _ _crafted, the purpose_ _**I** _ _gave you._

„Right. You‘re right. Sorry.“

 _I see you have taken to humanity‘s culture well._ (Oh, you have no idea. The 21st century rules.) _Shall I remind you why you are here?_

Pain. Unbearable, all consuming, scorching pain. Flames licking up the fleshy walls of his insides. A teacher‘s hand, raised upwards, ready to strike.

Someone is screaming. It takes Brady a long time to realize it‘s his mouth that is doing it, treacherous thing.

_please_

_\- You were one of my brightest once. Where did that bright eyed, devilish boy go? Eager to please, eager to worship Him. Worship me._

_\- here he‘s here i am here i am sorry please erbarmen i can do better i will not fail you you are my everything there‘s nothing but you my obedience for you is absolute bitte_ _**pleAASE** _

_\- Do you swear your allegiance onto me, like you once did before? Do you swear to abide my command and my command only? To carry out this mission like I have told you, to make me proud?_

_-_ _**YES** _

Suddenly and abruptly, he is released and dropped back down to earth in a way that feels awfully familiar. His vision is blurry from tears and he blames that for the fact that it takes him a whole minute to realize that, lo and behold, Sam Winchester (the anti-christ, boy king, Azazel‘s ascendant) himself is grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

_Good. Remember that._

„-dude, come on, hey, talk to me Brady! What‘s going on? Do you need me to call campus security?“

His body feels heavy like lead. A teacher‘s disappointment is the worst feeling in the world. The creature known as Tyson Brady suddenly feels terrifyingly human and fragile.

He manages to push out a weak „No‘m fine“ before he collapses against his squeaky mattress. It‘s too soft, used by millions of students before him. How many of them felt like he does right now?

There‘s a soft hand on his sweaty forehead. He moans and Sam‘s answer is a fierce blush all over his face. It suits him. „You .... umm.... I mean, you were screaming in your sleep. What was wrong? Is it something I -, I mean. Is there, is there something I can do?“

( _I sold my soul to a demon, Sammy. My soul has been famished by centuries of damnation. Can you help with that? Can you fix me?_ )

„Nah, just need ta sleep.“ He doesn‘t, not really. But he also _needs_ this conversation to be over already so Sam‘s forgiving loving gaze will stop boring holes into his soul. He doesn‘t want or require saving, thank you very much. He made his bed a long time ago. Been lying just fine in it ever since.

 

\--

 

There‘s never been a more important mission than seducing Sam Winchester, he decides. Ever since that first blush, Brady has done everything in his power to awaken back his old witch hunter charm.

He makes a habit of walking around their dorm naked, just for the hell of it, and Sam‘s panicked response to it every time makes him reminisce the good ol‘ days when he would just waltz into a town, denounce a few witches here, lay a little chaos there. The towns folk hanging onto his every word for guidance. All he needed back then was a copy of _Der Hexenhammer_ and convince them it was all in the book, you see? The poor women that ended up on the pyres? Peaked his interest at random. Well, they‘re in a better place now. Or whatever.

Once, back in Bamberg, he had even managed to successfully accuse the mayor (the sweet, fat mayor, ripe for the taking) of satanism and practicing the wicked ways of the occult. The smell of oiled up flesh sizzling in the fires? Delicious. (Nürnberg was an exception to his luck, he will admit)

He manages to look through Tyson‘s (Rest In Pieces) memories to find that him and Sammy had what you would call puppy love. Fleeting gazes, awkward handshakes but never anything serious. Tyson had really planned to tell Sam after winter break, to sweep him off his feet in a grand gesture. Funny how those things turn out.

Tyson Brady‘s meat suit is the pyre, Sam Winchester an innocent soul overcome with desire. And Brady? The breadcrumbs leading him there. Leading him into the witches den.

 

\--

 

„Ask me how witches used to be found.“

Sam‘s beer stops mid way to his mouth, head thrown back. Looking at him like he just asked him why the sky is blue. His throat is exposed, a single line of sweat trailing down his collarbone. Down, down, down. Brady‘s teeth start clicking together.

Sam‘s throat does that weird human thing where they want to scoff and laugh at the same time. „Dude,“ he says, emphasizing, „Talk about a mood killer.“ He‘s trying for lightheartedness but Brady can tell he‘s nervous. Some of that old hunter instinct coming back. Good. Brady wants him nervous, on edge. It‘s a good look on him. „How would you even know that? You‘re an English lit major.“

The sound his bar stool makes as Brady starts shuffling closer towards Sam feels heavy, even in the crowded bar. He stopped nursing his beer hours ago. (Tastes like piss) „I‘ll have you know,“ he says, effectively laying his warm hand on Sam‘s thigh to lean in, like he‘s sharing a secret, „My family happens to come from a long line of medieval German witch finders. Church approved, the whole deal.“

Sam‘s responding full body shiver is half because of the conversation‘s subject matter and half on those five thin fingers stuck in place. „Your family‘s last name is _Brady_. Doesn‘t sound very European to me.“ he asks, gulping back a huge amount of his beer. _Careful, Sammy. There‘s all sorts of weird people in bars like these, looking for inebriated college students._

„God‘s honest truth,“ he smirks. „Roots tracing back towards the 15th century. My family, you see, they were real serious about writing everything down. Documentation. For future generations, you know. So they wouldn‘t fall into the hands of Satan.“ He‘s lying through his teeth, but when is he not? „And you still haven‘t responded to my earlier request. Ask me. Please.“

Something in his tone, or maybe the hardness in eyes finally convinces Sam. He hasn‘t talked about this in, well, ages. No one keeps a diary in hell. „How did they used to find witches, Brady?“ His voice is quiet, like they‘re in their room talking about their families while crouched down on the floor, but Brady can hear him just fine.

_If I had met you back then, I would have thrown you to the wolves. You would have looked beautiful bound and torched. Or maybe I would have taught you, like Azazel taught me. Pick your poison, Sammy._

„Well, Sammy, funny that you‘re asking me that.“ He starts standing up, crowding Sam into the hard wood of the bar, relishing in the way his eyes widen in barely concealed fear and excitement. „You see, all that crap about witches having long crooked noses and fuzzy red hair? Humbug. Black cats? Hmm, maybe. Sometimes. What it was really about, though, were marks. Marks of Satan. Like this one here.“ He puts his thumb over Sam‘s mole, applying pressure there while putting his pointed finger on his jaw. Sam‘s whole face is clenched, confusion and desire radiating off him in waves.

He‘s cold. Colder than Brady had thought. „You would put the witch in custody, and then you‘d get to prodding. Really start carving and digging,“ more pressure on his cheek, probably more than is enjoyable, „and one way of doing that is to pierce the birth mark. If it leaks a deep, thick blood, it‘s a witch. If not, lucky woman. But that‘s not the only way to spot witches. Besides the obvious ones you probably already heard of, like drowning.“ They‘re so close now that Sam‘s shaky exhale dampens Brady‘s nose. Their fingers are even touching under the bar table. He‘s like a deer in headlights. Not quite King of hell material, but not quite Christian savior either. Interesting.

The question Sam means to ask gets cut off by someone rudely interrupting their nice little interrogation session. Brady doesn‘t need to search Tyson‘s memories to know that the spat out insults are descriptive of a very specific type of person. (Homo sapiens and their primitive narrow minds.)

„Queers, get a fuckin‘ room. We don‘ want your sort in _our_ bar!“ The monkey talking, two others in tow, has a beer bottle in his hand and is swaying on his feet a little. The image is enough to remind Brady of a drunken medieval mob, circa 1655, about to ban him from his hometown like an unwanted illness. His grin stretches the flesh of his face impossibly wide.

Brady was so transfixed in his own little thoughts that he didn‘t notice Sam next to him, squaring up his shoulders and for once standing up straight, showcasing his impressive set of limbs and muscles. People are starting to notice the potential for a brawl by now, there‘s a certain static in the air. The barkeeper looks about ready to shit his pants. This is going to be fun. „Hey man, why don‘t you just leave us alone and we‘ll stick by our side of the bar and you‘ll stick by yours, okay?“ Winchester, ever the pacifist. Still, there‘s a dangerous gleam in his eyes, one Brady hasn‘t seen in him yet. Intriguing. He has one arm outstretched, shielding Brady like a forlorn maiden. It‘s hilarious.

„Don‘t think so, boyscout,“ another monkey says, reeling for a fight. „We been here a long time before you pansy students started showing up. Go run back to your rich daddy.“ It‘s almost like a switch has been turned off in Sam‘s brain at that last comment, probably a jab too far, and all hell breaks loose. Or something like that.

Brady‘s never had the privilege of watching a hunter in a fist fight before, but something tells him that Sam‘s stance is different. It‘s not the macho fighting stance he would expect, the swinging fists and bulging shoulders. Instead, he moves almost unknowing of his built. The punch he delivers on Monkey 1‘s jaw is small but efficient, the sound of knuckles hitting soft flesh is loud enough to pierce through the music. Monkey 1 stumbles, clutching his face like he can‘t believe someone actually took him up on his offer. Sam is just standing there and smiling, all calmness and ease.

For the first time ever, Brady understands why Sam Winchester is hailed as Azazel‘s prodigy. Even without the now visible gleam of demon blood flowing through his veins he can tell that he‘s _special_. Sharp in a way not a lot of humans are.

The human Brady would be terrified. the demon Brady has never before felt this much of an urge to fall on his knees in worship, not even back when Azazel had shown him his true visage for the first time and the sight alone made him hungry for the power those eyes had possessed. Sam‘s eyes? They‘re so full of power, potential and promise all mixed into one that it‘s hard to look at them straight on. Like looking at the sun.

By the time Brady starts getting his head outta the gutter Sam has already immobilized two of his opponents. Blood has stained his hands and chest, and none of it‘s his. He looks good in red. Brady will admit he‘s much more voyeuristic than he is offensive in battle, but he swears an oath right then and there.

Screw Azazel, screw Lucifer. He‘s going to follow that boy into the pits of earth, he‘s going to present himself as sacrificial lamb. Sharpen the knife on his own and guide Sam‘s sturdy hands towards his throat. He was never much of a believer to begin with, even back as a human, but he thinks he might be able to believe in Sam.

And that thought alone is strong enough to make him move his legs towards Human Numero 3, grab him by the neck with inhumane strength and just _press down._ The snap and squish of veins popping is almost unnoticeable in the heat of the attack, only Brady can really tell when those eyes widen just enough to signal someone realizing that they‘re in deep shit. The body drops like a stone.

Brady grabs his leader by the bloodied hand and runs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mein Lehrmeister = my master, more importantly what you would call your teacher back in the day that you apprenticed at, e.g. as blacksmith  
> Gute Nacht = Good night  
> Bamberg = a small city in Bavaria, Germany, most known for the sheer magnitude of its documented witch trials (and Bratwurst/ginger bread/christmas markets). They burned a shit ton of witches, y'all.  
> Nürnberg = bigger city near Bamberg, known for the Nürnberg trials (and Bratwurst/ginger bread/christmas markets - all bavarian cities are the same) and during the medieval times it was relatively well educated. Despite being a day's trip away from Bamberg, it's witch trials count was kept relatively short.  
> Bitte = Please  
> Erbarmen = mercy  
> Der Hexenhammer = literal translation "The witch hammer", latin name malleus maleficarum (hey, thats the name of the fic!), a sort of wikihow guide for witch trials. Was first published in the 16th century, it was quite.... ehh.. popular. Even now it's considered a bestseller. It was also exclusively in latin so common folk could understand shit it said (convenient)
> 
> History lesson no one asked for:  
> I recently went to a city tour about bavarian ghost/witch hunters. Those professions were contrary to popular belief not at all well thought of, and witch trials in Europe/Germany were generally a little different from the way they're portrayed in american media. First of all, it wasn't so much a town hysteria as it was the church exercising its power with literally *everyone* terrified. Common folk wouldn't really go around accusing others of witchcraft, that was what witch finders were for.  
> The tour guide also told us the story of a man from Nürnberg (that I for the life of me can't remember or find the name of), a drunk who was supposed to take over his father's blacksmith shop but was bored by the moderate town life. So when he got enough money to leave town, he bolted - only made it around 40 kms before he'd drank all of his coins. While aquiring a debt for himself, he met a man in black garment in a tavern. The man asked him if he should like to see the world and the dude obviously said "Hells yeah, sign me tf up".  
> That's how that man came to study under Germany's most feared witch hunter, a guy they would spit at in the street, and our drunk fella from Nürnberg gave him quite the run for his money. They travelled to Bamberg together, and like I said before, that .... didn't go over well for the town. They even managed to successfully accuse the famous mayor of witchcraft and burned him as well. They burned *a lot* of people, men and women, probably more than the Salem witch trials. A while after that, now not so much drunk guy decides to visit his hometown again, right. Go back to his roots. Not even a day there, he denounces 6 separate women as witches, going to the church à la "look how cool I am and look how stupid y'all are, letting witches roam free in your town's walls" (wanting a repeat perfomance of Bamberg, no doubt). Only problem was that, those 6 women? Famous Nürnberg women. Influential, powerful. They understandably don't like a random dude accusing them of shit they didn't do, so they decide to rile their husbands up against him. The church also isn't really a fan of this intruder, they know that witch trials equals fear equals slow tourism equals bad economy (for once capitalism saves the day). (Most of them also had 1/2 more braincells than common folk and knew that most accused witches were innocent, if not all.) So they, with the women leading the mob, ban the witch hunter from ever again setting foot on Nürnberg soil (harsh) and chase him out of the city, presumebly with pitch forks/weapons.  
> After this the witch hunter's trail goes cold suddenly. Where did he go? No idea. Probably went off to lick his wounds. Maybe a family member of one of his victims decided to extract revenge. Either way, I hope it fills my tour guide with joy to know that I used all the precious knowledge he told us to write spn fanfic.


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys dabble in some vore.  
> TW: Non-consensual drug use, dubious consent kinda, emotion abuse/gaslighting

They keep running for what feels like hours. The sun is starting to rise again. Dawn of a new day.

They‘re still holding hands, even as Sam coughs out a „Stop“ and drags him into an alley. The blood in between their palms has dried and the brown crust has bound their hands together. It feels vaguely poetic. (When was it ever like this, with Azazel? When did it ever feel like _this_?)

„What the hell was that,“ Sam exhales, chest rising and falling rapidly. His bangs are covering his eyes and from a distance they almost look darker than they are. Brady wonders if, after unlocking his true potential, his eyes will turn yellow or black. Nature vs nurture, in a sense. He also has a feeling that particular question is going to get answered sooner rather than later.

„Natural selection.“ He grins.

„What?“ Sam‘s hands are still cold. „I haven‘t fought like that in a long time. Ever since me and Dean.... I mean... I, I .... I don‘t know what happened. Oh God. What did I _do?!“_ He stops the hand holding in favor of taking a lock of hair in each hand and tearing at it. Brady groans in disappointment. (A panic attack, really?! Later rather than sooner, I guess.)

„Sam, stop worrying.“

„What if I hurt those clueless suckers?? What if someone recognizes me on campus? What if they _suspend me?_ “

„Sam.“ His tone is a warning. He doesn‘t like this blabbering baby in front of him, he doesn‘t like him at all. It‘s very unsexy. „Everything is going to be fine.“

„How do you _know_ that?! How do you know I won‘t go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow with a warrant for aggravated assault and a box full of my crap waiting for me at the door?!“ Sam‘s voice is shrill and high pitched, like a house wife worrying if she put the stove on. Brady has to roll his eyes. (Way, way later.)

The constant anxiety is really starting to get on his nerves, so he does what any good foot soldier would do. Brady slaps his sovereign square in the face. At long last, that shuts him up.

„Keep it together. I‘ll take care of this.“ Sam‘s entire right side of his face is red, he might have used more gusto than normal for humans. And yet, his body finally stops twitching. All that‘s left of the panic from before is his mouth, open and round like he‘s about to ask some dumb shit like _how_ or _why_.

Brady plants his mouth on that open real estate before he can think too hard about it. Their teeth clink together painfully and Brady starts holding this gigantic mess of a man by the shoulders. He sucks Sam‘s lower lip in between his teeth and bites down. Hard. Both of them still have their eyes open, Sam‘s confused and open, his stony and glinting. He growls and finally lets up on the abused flesh between his teeth to feel it tearing open. A warning.

_If you don‘t start getting your shit together I‘m about to kill you myself._

After he finally lets up on his victim, he mouths „trust me“ into the open space between them. Sam‘s split lip is bleeding down his chin. Thank Satan there‘s no street lights in this corner because if there were he‘s pretty sure Sam‘s hunter instincts would manage to make out Brady‘s pitch black eyes.

Turns out that Sam‘s libido ends up winning that particular fight, because he grabs Brady by the neck and pulls him back in. Or well, tries to, but Brady was never one to discard a so _generously_ offered gift like that, so he licks the trail of blood clean. After, and only after he‘s made sure that Sam is squeaky clean again does he let himself get manhandled.

They don‘t make it home that night until way after sunrise.

 

\--

 

_Take care of it._

That‘s what Azazel had said when Brady had informed him of their little nightly transgression. Of course he won‘t receive help to clean up his own mess. Of course. Azazel‘s voice had been hard and final, but there had also been an undercurrent of pride in that sound inside his mind. The pride was less in Brady‘s seduction skills and more in his self proclaimed prodigy, he‘s sure. (Careful, Azazel. Sentimentality in your old age?)

Still, he‘s a simple creature. Acknowledgment of a task well done gets to him like any other. That tone alone has been enough to bring back his motivation tenfold.

He‘s currently doing exactly that. Taking care of it.

Sam is already crashed out on his bed, fully clothed except for his shoes, and spread out like a Da Vinci study. The still visible blood splatter on his shirt feels oddly symbolic. Brady can‘t wait to witness that entire, long, muscled body start to slowly engulf itself in blood and entrails. He‘s gonna have to do something about that. Later.

For now, he has spread out his old altar on their shared kitchen table. It‘s not necessarily his favorite choice of method, but he also can‘t afford to leave behind more bodies. He doesn‘t want Sam, or Satan forbid other hunters, growing too suspicious. Not yet.

Yes, his official job description might have been „witch hunter“ back in the day, but his actual profession was quite the opposite. Compared to others he‘d met, he wasn‘t really special. Never had a knack for it, either. His hands were forever too tremulous for longer rituals, and his knowledge of Latin is rusty at best. Certainly not worthy of any awards.

It‘s less of an altar as it is a bowl of blood and various other bodily fluids that are surprisingly easy to take from an unconscious body. Not the most sturdy spell, he must admit. But he‘s running a little low on ingredients so this will have to do.

The sting of the engraved stake piercing his hand is so welcome. He could get a new one these days, maybe even a dagger, but what can he say. He might also be a sentimental fool. The amount of blood the worn wood has absorbed over the years, most of it his, means something to him. Like a collection.

Wiping people‘s memories is easier than some might think, with black magic anyway. All you really need is the right spell, the blood of a person who was there at the scene of the crime and voila. Suddenly an entire bar will just collectively have a black out, or remember a bar brawl very differently. Like three overgrown monkey children suddenly attacking each other for no discernible reason, pathetic infants that they are. One casualty. Tragic, but not at all news cast worthy. The blood in the bowl starts sizzling and then disappearing into the air.

When he‘s done and his eyes are that soft brown again he pats the stake like a well behaved pet and wipes any trace satanic rituals have taken place in this American apple pie dormitory. He's an english lit major again and witches are only found in tales or slutty Halloween parties. Sam is still snoring, blissfully unaware of the literal wolf in sheep‘s clothing wiping his hands clean off blood and slipping under the covers with him. Or maybe he is aware of it, in some deep dark pit of his subconscious. After all, most predators recognize one of their own.

 

\--

 

Realistically he knows that Sam‘s powers are technically only supposed to really show themselves in any concrete fashion in a few months. Realism. He‘s always been more of an optimist, truthfully. Which is why, when a few days later they‘re having overpriced coffee so generously paid for by Tyson Brady‘s savings, Brady looks at the steaming bean juice in his right hand and considers. His mind goes wandering for a bit, with all the possibilities. All the stimulants undetectable in a creamy mixture such as this. Sam trusts him now. He‘d hate to misuse that trust.

He wants so much to test on him it‘s almost a little overwhelming. What folklore won‘t tell you is that while most women burned as witches were just ordinary Kräuterhexen, damn did they have some strong shit. Herbs that could make you see heaven _and_ hell, all in one evening. Sometimes, if they were smart, they‘d use hallucinogenic herbs as escape from persecution. Nothing like drugging your executioner. There‘s one he‘d been dying to try out back in his youth, and then he died for real.

When Brady returns after a _looong_ coffee run to their little cramped room with the blinds down, Sam is already up and has his nose stuck in one of his many law books. At _7 am_. That boy can be insufferable. Samuel Winchester might be half demon, but he‘s also half human and damn if that side isn‘t the dominant one 85% of the time.

Well. Time to even that scale.

„Hey, took you long enough,“ he says, a smile evident in his voice, nose still stuck in between those old paperbacks. „What were you doing? Going to a Starbuck‘s next state over?“

Brady starts sipping on Sam‘s cup of coffee, just a bit. Just to test out if the slight shift in substance is noticeable, as well as getting some of his own high. Shared suffering. (Also to piss off Sam.) „Wandering,“ he says, cryptically. He wonders how Sam would react if he told him the truth _‚Hey Sam I went into the forest, gutted an owl, ground up its bones and with some other herbs made super special weed out of it, how‘s your morning going?‘_ Probably try to spray him with holy water. He doesn‘t own any currently, Brady made sure of that when he first got back from break. Now all he can do is splash him with slightly moldy mineral water. Would be annoying either way. „The woods are beautiful this time of day.“

„Woods? In Palo Alto?“ Sam spins his fancy study chair to look him in the eye. „Man, where the hell were you?“

Brady walks over, plants a possessive, not entirely pleasant kiss (he still hasn‘t brushed his teeth) on Sam‘s lips and hands him his cup. Sam‘s lips have a layer of processed sugar on top. Shithead ate their last Donut. Brady‘s gonna have to make him pay for that. „Hell,“ he grins. „Or as I like to call it: Coffee shops at rush hour with a shit ton of college students on their way to their 8am lectures just waiting to get their fix.“

Sam‘s responding „Hmmm“ is lost in his plastic cup. Brady‘s eyes start glinting in excitement. This is going to be fun. Both of them have lectures they need to go to later, Brady never going to his or going and making the professors profusely uncomfortable and Sam being a perfect student and never skipping one. Guess he‘s gonna have to call in sick today. Extracurriculars to take care of.

He takes his place on his bed, kicking his shoes off and letting them fly around the room. Sam hates that, probably reminds him of another macho manly man he once had to share a room with. It‘s part of the reason why Brady does it, answering Sam‘s exaggerated eye roll with an obnoxious wink.

„Tyson?“

„Hmm?“ ( _Don‘t call me Tyson. Tyson‘s a rotting corpse on a vivisection table. It‘s only Brady in here now._ )

„Exactly how much sugar did you put in this? This stuff tastes like syrup.“

He purses his lips in deep thought. „Not too much.“ ( _Just enough to dissolve the other extra shot. Bottom‘s up, Sammy._ ) „Not everyone has the abhorrent taste in coffee that you do. Some of us do indulge from time to time.“

Sam flips him the bird, already taking another sip of his by now lukewarm coffee. Brady just smiles and lets his body flop onto the mattress, stretching his arms out over his head and waiting for the high to kick in. It doesn‘t take too long, after a few minutes he can already feel a tingling sensation on his arms, like vines have started growing under his skin. His thoughts are light and fleeting, like clouds on a sunny day. He didn‘t take enough of it to feel a truly lasting effect, but then again this is Sammy‘s treat. He‘s just along for the ride. To pass the time, he starts talking out loud, ranking his current professors by how much he wants to gouge their eyes out.

It shows itself in a slight leg tremor at first, which grows and grows until Sam‘s entire body is shaking. Brady uses that moment to stand up on shaky legs and make his move. „Sammy, you okay? Lookin‘ a little sick there, buddy.“

„Dontcallmethat“ It‘s out so fast he has to really strain his brain to realize what Sam said. When he does, he uses the tip of his finger to trace a swirling pattern on his neck, down his collarbone.

„What? Buddy?“ Sam shakes his head, and then he does it again, and again. He‘s half afraid the kid‘s gonna get whiplash. „What‘s wrong with me calling you Sammy, Sammy?“

The bastard grabs his moving hand like a vice, shoulders taut and shuddering. Physical touch must be overwhelming right now, he can only imagine. Just to be a dick, Brady twists his hand, spraining his wrist. Making Sam‘s index finger rest on the soft center of his palm.

Sam‘s response is immediate: he tackles him to the ground, putting his entire weight on Brady‘s. His hand is bound in a death grip, and when he wiggles his hips experimentally Sam just grinds his own down so hard it will probably leave bruises. Rendered immobile, unguarded. If Sam were to kill him now, take that death grip and apply it somewhere else, he‘d be finished. Or would be, if he were human and things like broken necks and sprained wrists had any effect on him.

Brady bears his throat like an obedient dog, so that Sam‘s wet breath hits him at just the right angle. „Don‘t. Call. Me. Sammy.“ Sam‘s eyes are wild and furious, pupils blown, by now probably realizing something‘s wrong. From this awkward angle Brady‘s only chance at using his still mobile hand is by slithering it into Sam‘s ratty pyjama shirt and digging his nails into the soft flesh of his rib. The resulting full body twitch is violent enough that it makes both of them lose their hold and get even closer. „Stop,“ he whispers, upper body trying to get away and yet crushing his pelvic bone into Brady‘s. They‘re both painfully hard. Really receiving kinda mixed signals there. (How messed up would it be to have their first time at a time like this? Really messed up. For all he knows Sam could be a virgin, he surely plays the part of blushing maiden well enough.)

What the hell. Why not test his luck further. „Make me,“ he responds, loud and clear. An invitation to wreck him. He makes a really obnoxious mouth pop to hammer the point home. „ _Sammy_.“

Winchester actually growls, full on fucking _growls_ and just goes to town with biting the ever loving shit out of Brady‘s exposed chest and collarbone. It‘s painful and too much and not close enough to any sweet spots to really get him off. It‘s perfect.

_Let me serve you. Let me show you what you are truly capable of._

Pinned like that, with a maniac tearing at his flesh, he‘s really starting to feel like Rotkäppchen fallen into the claws of the big bad wolf. (How the tables have turned, huh.) Sam is making these completely filthy, animalistic sounds and occupying his one free hand not currently crushing Brady‘s to pieces (really, could‘ve sworn he heard a _crack_ there) with tearing open his fancy dress shirt that Tyson Brady‘s mom got him last Christmas. Most of the buttons are already goners, so Brady‘s essentially being trapped and undressed by a mad man with a cannibal kink. He fucking loves it. In the stories, wolves swallow their victims whole. Always felt so awfully rushed. Why not take your time, like Sam is doing to him right now.

„Oh but grandmother, what a terrible big mouth you have,“ he says, laughing up to the ceiling. Man, is he pissed. Can‘t stop barfing up quotes. „What big eyes. What large hands.“ Sam is too far out of it to register any of the shit he‘s saying, and Brady‘s currently finding his metaphorical humor far too genius to let it go. „Do I find you here, you old sinner! I have long sought you!“ He starts deepening his voice like the way his father used to when he was cross with him. „How frightened I have been! How dark it is inside the wolf!“ The brother‘s grimm are far too modern to have colored his childhood tales, but they‘re amusing nonetheless. Humans are so very fucked up.

Cutting up wolves, carving up witches. Filling them with heavy rocks or just binding them to their feet and throwing them to the fish, it‘s all the same in every century.

After a while, the growling stops and is replaced with a wet sort of retching sound coming from somewhere. It takes Brady an embarrassing amount to realize that Sam is trying to hold back his returning breakfast on top of him. His mouth and chin area is a bloody mess.

His boner decides that a little vomit is nothing to ruin a good moment over. What is bile but another bodily fluid exchange, right? Ok. So, if they could just go back to what they were doing earlier, that‘d be swell.

„Hrrngg,“ Sam manages to let out, „‘m gon‘ b sick.“ And with that he‘s off, fleeing towards the bathroom and the salvation of the toilet bowl. Leaving Brady, still kinda high and _very_ horny, lying spread out and bleeding on the carpet. His shirt is ruined, and from what he can tell he has more bite marks than skin at this point. Some of them superficial, barely enough to pierce flesh, some that probably require stitching if he wasn‘t such a lazy bastard. There‘s also an awful lot of spit and drool pooling in his clavicle. His wrist is _definitely_ strained, if not broken, and the area around his pelvis bone has seen better days.

He huffs. Why does the universe never let him have any goddamn _fun_.

Sam is still retching when Brady decides to join him, but it seems his body has allowed him a temporary truce. He‘s resting his sweaty forehead on the cool toilet ring. Sprawled out on the floor like that, Brady can barely make himself fit in the small bathroom. „Oh God,“ Sam lets out, and then: „I‘m sorry, I‘m _so_ sorry, Oh God what have I done, I‘m sorry, I‘m _sorry_ “ over and over again.

It feels like a rerun of Saturday‘s incident. If all the times they get any sort of action going end up with Sam pathetically going into an anxiety attack, Brady‘s out. He‘s already second guessing his oath right there, just putting his hand on Sam‘s shoulder in a comforting manner to keep up appearances. „There, there,“ he mumbles, patting him on the back in the straightest dudebro way possible.

Sam lets out a sob, like an actual sob. Jeez. He didn‘t want to wreck the kid _this_ bad, never fucking mind then. Lesson learned. (At least with that drug. There‘s still plenty others.) „‘m goin‘ crazyy?“ he slurs, looking to him like his caretaker. _No. That‘s the problem._

„Nah,“ Brady scoffs. „Just sick. Go sleep it off, or .... whatever.“ He searches his brain for a socially acceptable way to deal with your roomie slash lover slash leader having a hangover. „I‘ll... make you some tea?“ (Nailed it.)

Sam just groans and starts vomiting again. 

 

\--

 

It doesn‘t take long for Sam to catch that something‘s not quite right after the hangover phase‘s over. He doesn‘t remember that incident completely, but the wounds and the crusted blood is enough to give him an idea. It would honestly be embarrassing if he didn‘t sniff that something‘s fishy. Brady can see it in the twitchiness of his body, the way he shies away from his touch like it‘s burning him. Some of that „holy water“ suspiciously ends up in his cup of tea once, and Brady just keeps sipping on it like it‘s the best thing he‘s ever tasted. Half waiting for him to shoot him with rock salt. It would be insulting if it wasn‘t absolutely his own damn fault.

They have their first fight that night. Sam accuses Brady of spiking his coffee that day. Brady accuses Sam of assaulting him, strategically unbuttoning his shirt to reveal the litter of scars there. Sam flinches but still insists on it not being _him_ that did that, „it can‘t be“. It‘s kinda hilarious the way he‘s grasping for straws here. Doesn‘t matter that it really wasn‘t him, or that Brady insinuated the whole thing. He just needs Sam to think it was, to make him afraid of his own nature. Whoever invented the concept of gaslighting deserves a medal.

Brady knows he‘s got him the moment he calls him a „real selfish bastard, aren‘t you, Sam“, hit the check pot. Sam‘s whole body starts shuddering, as if he‘s going to be sick. His eyes fly open, wide eyed and scared, like he‘s remembering the last time someone called him that. (Brady didn‘t know those were the words John used, couldn‘t, but fate seems to be on his side today.)

He‘s actually rendered fucking speechless, standing there like a puppet with its strings cut, unsure of what to do. And, just to drive the point home, to _really_ screw with his head, he lets his voice go down a couple octaves and whisper, with his head bowed like an abused wife, „You know, Sam ... you really scare me sometimes... Like, what you are ....“ It‘s half true, he really is scared of Sam‘s potential. He‘s scared Sam is too much of a do goody pussy to be the leader he was born to be, to be the leader he/the world _needs_ him to be.

There _is_ something wrong with Sam, but what he means is his virtue, the fundamental bright core of his soul. What Sam hears is „what‘s wrong is that you‘re rotten, evil inside“. Funny how people hear what they want.

He‘s out the door so fast he even managed to leave his keys, hell his jacket even. Brady doesn‘t make any moves to follow him, to assure him otherwise. He scored his goal, lit the torch. Now all he‘s gotta do is wait to collect his trophy.

Brady starts grinning maniacally and does Sam the favor of cleaning up after his mess and closing the door. His hands reach his collarbone absentmindedly and scratch a particularly itchy scar. He wonders where Sam will go. Maybe to a bar.

Hell, knowing him though, he‘s probably going to church. Try to pray some of that ‚foulness‘ away. Repent. If only he knew he‘d just have to direct his prayers the opposite way.

 

\--

 

Turns out, he was right about that first guess. Later that night, when Sam picks their lock and stumbles to Brady‘s bed, crouching down as if in prayer he reeks decidedly of alcohol and cigarette smoke. Sobbing „Forgive me“‘s, „What‘s wrong with me“‘s and „I‘m sorry“‘s into the velvet of his pyjamas, over and over again, until Brady can understand none of it anymore except the hiccupy snotty sobs that fill the room.

Smiling, he opens up his arms wide and welcomes him back like a prodigal son.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kräuterhexen = literal herb witches, medieval women who specialized in treating illnesses with ointments instead of the traditional blood letting.  
> Rotkäppchen = red riding hood  
> I have been informed by my girlfriend that dear ol' witch hunter dude I was telling you all about last chapter actually *did* get hanged for mass incitement and various other crimes. Somehow, I find that ending very fitting, for him to think he's the shit and try to burn some innocent women and then underestimating those very women and them orchestrating *his* doom. Talk shit get hit.  
> Also, the drug I was referencing? Real shit, but more of an herb than the freaky stuff I made it out to be. But I had my doubts about whether a long extinct (?) german herbal mixture could be found in an american forest (also I have no clue if there are woods in Palo Alto, the american landscape is a big question mark for me and I want it to remain like that). It's an ointment that you often find referenced in medieval werewolf trials, because covering your body with it/taking it would result in crazy hallucinations, which funny enough usually had the some sorta theme for most people - the sensation of growing fur and the desire to eat human flesh. And to walk around buck naked on all fours, I guess. That drug was quite popular back in the day, there's trial recordings of entire families taking it as a fun little bonding experience. According to lore it was only given to you by the devil/some sorta demon if you'd already sold your soul, but I find it hard to believe that mixing herbs together was a Satan only event.  
> The store of drugging your executioner actually happened in a witch trial I was told about.


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> LOST: Sam Winchester's mental wellbeing. If found please return to Sam Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit gets dark. Seriously. This is also twice as long as the last chapters, and I still got one more to go.  
> TW: Non-consensual drug use (again), Dubious consent (again), attempted sexual assault, emotional abuse, uhhh. Yeah.

For a week after that, Sam is cautious and frightful around him. He keeps randomly apologizing for the dumbest shit. Circling around him, treating him like a precious doll. Brady hates it. Azazel even realized something was up the last time he ‚called‘ but Brady can‘t very well tell him he‘s horny. Kinda feels like spilling to the overprotective father on prom night how you‘re gonna deflower his daughter in the limo later. (Damn it though, he hasn‘t had sex since.... Since .... He doesn‘t even remember how long, his last witch trial maybe? The 30 years old war? He used to have _a lot_ of fun during those times. People constantly dangling between the ledge of life and death host the best parties.) He‘s not even sure if _that_ kind of seduction is in his job description, but if it isn‘t he‘s gonna damn well find a pen and write it in himself. He‘s promoting himself, if you will.

He might‘ve wanted to wiggle his fingers around Sam‘s brain a little, to make him self doubt, but now all he wants is _Sam‘s_ fingers around _him._ So far though, no dice.

What‘s the point of emotional manipulation if one can‘t reap the sexual benefits?

Which is why, when he can hear Sam fumble with their shitty lock on the other side of the door, that he practically jumps up from his chair and races to the door like the mad man he is. Doesn‘t even let the poor guy get any words out or close the door before he‘s slamming their chests together, putting his lips on Sam‘s neckline and sucking. He just went for a run so he‘s positively reeking, dripping with sweat. Delicious.

„Hmhmpf,“ he says, into it but also kinda alarmed. Brady decides that ‚Scared but turned on‘ should be his default setting. „What, uh..... What‘s-“ He probably meant to say „What‘s going on“ but Brady takes that moment to suck a thick amount of neck skin into his mouth and grind down with his teeth. It‘s more biting a chunk out of his flesh than it is leaving a hickey, but Sam moans so loud Brady thinks the fun might be over before it‘s even fully begun. Not this time, though. There is no vomit or panic attack that will let him let go of Sam that easily.

„Shut up,“ Brady pants into his neck. He really underestimated how freaking _gigantic_ this man is. He might have to regrow his legs if he wants to kiss him.

„Are you ...?“ The question is left open ended for a reason. _Are you crazy. Are you okay. Are you sure._ Yes to all of those.

„Aced my finals,“ He murmurs, licking his lips and looking up into Sam‘s full blown eyes. (He did, but only because he dared himself to actually _write_ his assignments for once. His professor told him he wrote like a 60 year old retired philosophy teacher. Not that far off.) „You gonna help me celebrate?“ He tilts his head.

He‘s half convinced Sam is gonna ask him some more bullshit questions, like ‚are you sure‘, just to satisfy his self righteousness. He‘s more than a little surprised when Sam just grunts, picks him by his thighs like a rag doll and drags him towards the nearest available furniture, which just so happens to be Brady‘s mess of a desk. Sam starts kissing him like his life depends on it, like he‘s trying to suck his soul out through his tongue. Brady lets him. ( _Not so innocent after all, huh, Sammy? You continue to surprise me._ )

For a while there Brady forgets everything but Sam‘s weight on top of him, forcing his legs apart with his ginormous limbs. Two tongues dragging together. Hands sneaking their way into shirts. Sam has to pause in between kisses sometimes, panting like a dog, but Brady just drags him back down. _He_ doesn‘t need to breathe, thankfully. Their noses rub together awkwardly, and Brady has the sudden urge to impulsively cut his off.

If this is what worship is like, count him the fuck in.

They do a whole lotta celebrating that evening, and even though it‘s pretty clumsy here and there (Sam‘s not as agile as he looks), it automatically ranks in Brady‘s top ten moments on earth. Fucking Sam Winchester, right under that fucking _with_ Sam Winchester. The _click_ human bones make when they‘re squished into an impossibly small prison cell. Bamberg. What can he say, he‘s a man of simple tastes.

Both of them are positively sticky with various bodily fluids, aching all over. Brady drags his left hand under his mattress and pulls out his weed box. Of course he bought weed for the occasion. Of course.

Sam gives him a look, in a _„are you insane, we‘re gonna get arrested“_ way, but he respectfully doesn‘t complain even when Brady starts lighting his joint and blowing the smoke right in his face with a smirk. Just takes one for the team and opens their tiny window a crack.

„Have to say,“ Brady says in between the comfortable silence, lying on his bed and part of Sam‘s shoulder, „I‘m impressed. In what kinda bumfuck town in the middle ‘a nowhere did they teach you _that_?“

Sam has the audacity to smile, like the kind he wore when he was beating up those jerks. His eyes are glinting dangerously. Looking like that, he awfully resembles his father. His _real_ one, not the sorry excuse for a sack of bones he calls ‚dad‘. His blood father. „Told you,“ he says, with just the smallest hint of sadness, „My family used to move around a lot.“

Brady grunts, pulling on his joint one more time before dangling it in front of Sam‘s scrunched up visage. „Come _on_ ,“ he whines, „Live a little Sammy. What, your daddy taught you you‘re going to hell for _weed_?“

Sam grimaces (touchy subject) and corrects him with „It‘s _Sam_ “, Brady uses that opportunity to stick the joint in Sam‘s open mouth, leaving him no option but to inhale the poison. If you wanna teach a kid how to swim, you gotta throw him in the well. „Stop it,“ he says, and isn‘t that cute. Like he really believes Brady will listen to what he says. Hilarious. „I don‘t like the feeling of not being control of my body.“

 _Oh, please._ „Liar.“ Even his own body knows what bullshit that is, a blush spreading on his cheeks. Brady takes back his weed. (Selfish.) „Humans crave subjugation. It‘s one of our biggest needs. Right up there in Maslow‘s pyramid. Or somethin‘.“ Really had to catch himself and not say ‚ _your_ biggest needs‘ there. Although, in that aspect? Demons and humans tend to not be that different.

„You mean self fullfilment.“

Brady waves him off with his one free hand, hitting him in the chest in the process. His back is starting to ache, so he abandons his position half on top of Sam to sit cross legged next to him. „Nah. Submission, man. People want to ride shotgun at some point, just sit back and let someone else decide. Everyone wants to be ruled.“ He takes a drag, looking at Sam, _really_ looking at him. He‘s flushed, but not nearly as exhausted (or high) as he should be. Brady grins, letting the smoke exit through his nostrils as puts his right hand on Sam‘s chest. „Or, I don‘t know. Maybe you‘d prefer to be the dominant one, huh, Sam? Maybe you want to _rule_ , instead.“ The metaphor is so right in his face it‘s not even funny, but sue him. He just had the pleasure of bedding the Anti Christ, maybe his tongue might be too loose at the moment. He‘s allowed.

Sam blushes and stutters so hard the movement makes Brady lose his joint and let the butt of it rest on Sam‘s chest, still lit. He swears and sits up, trying to wipe away the cig. Brady has enough self control to save what‘s his and appreciate the angry red mark starting to form over his nipple. This wasn‘t planned, but damned if it isn‘t appreciated. He‘s got that mark forever now, like Brady‘s thumb print.

„Sorry,“ Brady says, lying through his teeth and throwing the last of his cig out the window. (RIP) The skin looks red and irritated, but other than that it looks fine. He traces the outline of the wound with his finger. Brady‘s really gonna have to make sure that one sticks. Sam just clenches his teeth and looks at him in a sort of _‚told you so‘_ way. „Yeah, yeah. Whatever.“

„You‘re lucky I have a high pain tolerance. I woulda kicked your ass.“

 _I would‘ve let you._ „I know,“ he says, planting a wet kiss right next to the burn and smiling up at Sam sweetly. He wonders, after all this is over and Sam will know the truth. After it will end bloody and with him in pieces, like it‘s bound to end, like it _should_ , if Sam will look at that scar and feel ashamed. If he will trace it and remember all the ways he let a demon into his mind, into his body. Into his heart. Will he feel bile rising up? Or will he be nostalgic? Like the way Brady is with the mental scars Azazel carved for him. Will he feel grateful that Brady taught him these important lessons, that he gave him the tools? Unlocked his true nature, even through lies and deceit.

_Will you thank me for teaching you, after crushing me?_

_No matter what happens, I will have been yours way before anyone else._

„Brady?“

No, he doesn‘t think he will. Sam‘s too sweet, even now. He will be disgusted, _feel_ disgusting. Oh well. „Hmm?“

„You know,“ Sam takes his hand and intertwines their fingers. _Sap. Wanting to hold my hand even after I‘ve hurt you._ (Brady really hopes Sam gets some therapy at some point, damn.) „You still haven‘t told me the last method.“

Brady just scrunches up his face. „Method?“

„Yeah, remember?“ Sam holds up his hand, the one interlocked with Brady‘s, and starts counting. „Moles and drowning. For witch hunting. That‘s what you told me. Still haven‘t told me the last one, though. So?“

„Can‘t believe you remembered that.“ Brady grins. He‘s kinda proud. He coughs, lowering his voice. „So, another fool proof way to discredit whatever poor women you had in your possession at the moment was through her eyes.“ Sam looks at him like he‘s speaking gibberish. (He just might.) Brady moves their intertwined hands and strategically puts them next to Sam‘s right eye, pinning his lids in place with his fingers. Kinda like back in hell, when he _really_ wanted a special guest to watch what he was going to do to them. Only back then he‘d pin them in place with hooks. He‘s got no hooks at hand now. Pity. „Hmm,“ he murmurs, expertly inspecting Sam‘s eyes. They‘re red as all hell. Kid‘s a lightweight. „You‘re off the hook. Too bright.“

„What?“

„It used to be foretold that witches‘ eyes were the darkest of brown, pitch black almost.“ There Sam goes with that nervousness again. Hunter instinct coming back. Brady wonders if he ever had the pleasure of exorcising a demon before, if he‘s going to be Sam‘s first. „You could stare into those eyes and see the devil. Or the pit. Depending on who you asked.“ Brady shrugs. Weren‘t really too far off, those folks. „But really, all that tells you is that people back then used to be super messed up and found any reason to get a pyre goin‘. They wanted to kill some women and used any reason they could find to justify that.“ Witch burners were always the most fun to get as, let‘s say, _clients_ in hell. Imagine torching some innocent woman and you‘re the one that ends up getting torched for real. Karma‘s a bitch.

„Your eyes are brown,“ Sam counters, looking him up and down and biting his lip. Well, damn. „Pretty damn dark, in fact.“

„I‘m not a witch.“ Liar, liar, pants on fire.

Sam purses his lips and looks at him sideways. „Dunno,“ he murmurs, in deep thought. „Sounds exactly like what a witch would say. I‘ll have to inspect your body for birth marks to be sure, though.“

Nothing quite like a thinly veiled threat of torture to get a guy hot and bothered. Brady wants to wipe that stupid smirk off his face. „You accusing me of witchcraft, Sammy?“

Sam seems to be too horny to take offense at the nickname. Instead he just shuffles closer towards Brady‘s body heat and plants his gigantic hands on his shoulders. „Maybe. What you gonna do about it?“

Brady wrestles Sam‘s body back on top of the mattress. Sam just lets him and smiles, high out of his mind. He argues his case quite strongly that day. Afterwards, Sam still finds him guilty.

 

\--

 

_How is he doing?_

„Oh, exceeding all expectations, really. Just beautiful. I think he might be ready.“

_Not yet. He still needs incentive. Await my orders._

„... Yes.“

 

\--

 

Halloween comes. Sam hates it, and he makes a habit of mentioning how much he hates the holiday. Brady thinks he might get it. But he also finds the festive season too amusing to pass up, so he forces Sam to go. At this point in their relationship, cracks are already visible. Comes with business like this, he guesses, but sometimes he swears he can feel Sam eye him with a certain distrust that‘s hard to shake. It is completely warranted, yes, but that doesn‘t mean Brady doesn‘t get to be petty about it. He pushes too much, prods too much, opens up way too many scars and lets them bleed deep and red on the carpet before he turning and walking away, leaving Sam still reeling from the damage. And when it‘s all over, he sprinkles in _just_ the right amount of emotional manipulation to let Sam believe that it was _him_ that had inflicted those wounds. That those scars are representative of the cracks in his psyche. Brady‘s frustrated. This is all dragging on for way longer than he thought it would.

Sam still has way too much self loathing and way too little common sense to leave him, though. Even though there‘s a small, tiny part of him that wants to, Brady can see it. (You beat a dog often enough, eventually it will stop feeding out of your hand and will just fear you instead.) What Brady can also see is just this: too little. Too little wickedness, too little demon blood. Not enough incentive. Azazel was right. Brady tries really, really hard not to be bitter about it.

Anyways, they still go to Halloween together. Sam hates it („Yeah, Sam, I _know“_ ) and yet Brady still makes a habit of buying him a costume. So did Sam, apparently.

„Come on,“ he says, looking at him in doubt. „Don‘t you think this is a little stereotypical? I mean, don‘t you remember anything I‘ve told you?“

„Sorry they don‘t make witch costume historically accurate,“ Sam counters, putting a big pointy hat on Brady‘s greasy head. Even got him a broom to ride. „Besides, be glad I only got you this and not one of those slutty witch costumes from Hot Topic.“

Brady snorts and holds up his choice of transportation for the night. „And what exactly _isn‘t_ slutty about this? You do know that brooms were supposed to symbolize riding Satan‘s dick, right?“ Sam‘s face heats up, his adam‘s apple bopping up and down. _Oh._ He didn‘t. Well. Isn‘t this awkward. „You know,“ he says, smiling up at him sideways, „I could just ride _your_ dick. That would certainly be more accurate.“ Brady thinks he‘s hilarious.

„Yeah, about that,“ Sam starts, awkwardly standing there and fidgeting with his fingers. „I think my _costume_ has started piercing my brain.“ He points towards his mess of hair and the small red devil horns on top of them. Brady‘s grin stretches his face impossibly wide. Damn, he really oughta get some sort of comedy award for this. Or at least memorize it forever. „Couldn‘t you have picked a bigger size? Besides, can‘t really complain to me about clichés when you got me _horns_.“

„I like you with horns. They suit you.“ Absolutely hysterical. „Really feelin‘ some sorta, uhh... sympathy with the devil.“

Sam groans. „Are you really going to keep making devil puns the whole night?“

„Hells yeah.“

 

\--

 

They‘re in a crowded bar, Sam is already well on his way to black out drunk (and drugged), and Brady. Well. He has to be the sober one to look out for dear Sam, right? Lord knows what could happen. The demons and ghosts come out to play on Halloween.

Speaking of demons, there‘s a certain gentleman dressed up as zombie on the other side of the room that has been eyeing the handsome devil next to him like a three course meal. Brady knows that look well. It‘s one he often wears around Sam. Which is why, when Zombie‘s and his eyes meet, he beckons him over with a friendly wave. He‘s never really been one for patience. Time to light the fire under Sam‘s feet and watch him squirm, he‘s about sick and tired of playing devil‘s advocate (Hah). Time to have fun.

„Wha‘ you doin‘?“ Sam slurs, already well out of it, swaying on his feet and bumping into him every few minutes. Brady might have spiked his drink more than what was strictly necessary, but like he said he‘s _frustrated._

„Time to spice things up,“ Brady says and winks at him, possessively grabbing Sam by the waist and pulling him in. Sam‘s only reaction is a small little whelp and a noise of protest against being moved so suddenly, but that‘s all.

„You two here together?“ Zombie says after making his way towards the crowd and from up close Brady can really see how cheap his make up is. Won‘t be winning any awards.

The one brain cell Sam has left manages to say „Yes“ out loud the same moment Brady counters with „What if we weren‘t?“ Sam gawks at him like a fish out of water, and in this moment in time he looks more like one of those disgusting apes than he does Azazel‘s son. Brady desperately needs a break away from him.

„B-Brady..?“ Sam sounds genuinely scared.

„Kidding, Sammy,“ Brady says, pointedly using the nickname he knows Sam despises. Looking at Zombie, though, he gives him a smirk and a wink. Just for a second, just long enough. Zombie seems to get it though.

He hands out his hand, his bicep straining through his shirt. „I‘m Cha-“

Brady cuts him off with a loud groan, loud enough to register over the blaring early 2000‘s emo rock. „I don‘t care.“ He _really_ doesn‘t, all this dude is to him is a tool to mess with Sam and that‘s it. They _really_ don‘t need to go to first name basis. And then, just to soothe Sam‘s nerves a little, he adds: „I know you from class, right? College?“

„........ Right.“

Brady sucks air through his teeth and lets go of Sam, effectively pushing him into Zombie‘s open, intruding arms. Dude looks confused, but also kinda into it. Sam just looks drunk, and most of all scared but unable to pinpoint why (probably the drugs). „Right, then. Nice talk. I need to go piss.“ He gives Sam‘s hot lips one last possessive kiss, pats Zombie harshly on the shoulder. „Sam, go behave. I‘ll be right back. Chase, was nice seeing ya.“

He can almost hear the dude say something like „It‘s _Chad_ “ but then he expertly starts moving through the crowd, away from Sam and his pleading eyes. Sam: Child refusing to swim. Zombie: Well. Deep, dark, wet well.

He doesn‘t really need to piss, so he just moves around the crowd like a phantom, looking at slutty cleopatras making out with slutty mummies and so on. It reminds him a lot of one of those opium dens he‘s heard so much about but never got to try for himself. He doesn‘t even know whose house this is, he‘s guessing some sorority dorm, though. Splendid. Being in a crowd like this, even a loud obnoxious one such as this, it grounds him. There‘s something soothing about disappearing in a sea of people, so he lets his mind wander for a bit. Dark places. Places he swore he‘d never return to again, like the thought of what happened to his family. If his father managed to keep his blacksmith business, even after his one son had fucked off and left. He had smaller sisters, he knows that, but he doesn‘t remember their names. He‘s not sure that‘s better or worse.

By the time he comes back to his and Sam‘s bar stool, they‘re gone. Surprise, surprise. Brady wonders if they left to go back to Zombie‘s place or if they‘re in a toilet stall somewhere. He doesn‘t want Sam to go back to the dude‘s place, he doesn‘t like not knowing where he is. Not being able to pull on his leash if he needs to, so to speak. When he starts looking for them in the party, all he finds is jack shit and Sam‘s half empty beer bottle. The drug from before has reacted badly to the alcohol by now and started sizzling, changing the beverage‘s color. Sam really ought to know better, growing up as John Winchester‘s pupil.

They‘re not on the toilet either, which is when Brady starts to grow weary. Bold of Zombie Chad to think he could just take what was his wherever he wanted. All he did was let him borrow him for a moment, that‘s all. If he sees him again, he might break the bones in those touchy hands, just for the hell of it.

He ends up finding them outside, behind the dumpsters (figures), looking rather... occupied. Sam‘s eyes are glassy and unfocused, his body coordination is decidedly off, but still he‘s fighting off groping hands with all the strength he can muster. Brady‘s too far away to make out what they‘re saying at first, but when he grows closer he realizes Sam is continuously saying „No“, and _„Dean“,_ over and over like a prayer. Well, if that ain‘t just heartbreaking.

„Stop fuckin‘ fighting,“ Zombie Chad pants in between trying to hold Sam‘s entire body upright and also getting his shirt off. Sam‘s horns are lying on the dirty pavement. The burn mark Brady gave him starts peaking out through his black shirt.

Brady uses this moment to burst their bubble. „Did no one ever tell you it‘s rude to take people‘s things without asking?“ Sam might be more than that, once upon a time he might‘ve even been great, but that doesn‘t mean he‘s not _his._

Zombie just swears and tells him to „fuck off, can‘t you tell we‘re _busy, asshole._ “ Okay, insulting him? That‘s a no go. He‘s just itching for a fight.

„Malleus maleficarum,“ he says, swaying from side to side. „I do hereby find you guilty.“ He _really_ wants to strip the skin from the dude‘s flesh, but he‘s also on a tight schedule here and can‘t afford to make a scene. So, instead of attacking him head on like he normally would, Brady starts waving his hand and snapping Zombie Chad‘s neck right in the middle. The bones make a defining _crunch_ as they grind together and then his body‘s falling to the floor, motionless. Just for good measure, he metaphorically hoists the sack of meat up by its shoulders and tosses it out into the trash. Wide eyed, dull eyes stare back at him next to the beer bottles and used paper plates. With another wave his spine starts stitching itself back together, and soon enough only the alcohol poisoning in his body is any clue as to how or why this poor, poor lad bit the bullet. It‘s all so incredibly mundane, lacking any sort of _style_. Brady really needs a holiday.

When he makes his way towards the other sack of collapsed meat on the floor, he‘s immediately greeted by Sam‘s hands flying up and pushing him away, as well. His eyes are screwed shut, sweat, tears and snot mixing and running down his cheeks. „No no no nononnostop“ he mumbles, sobs escaping his throat.

Brady sighs and pushes him to his knees anyways. „Really, Sammy? Again with the panic attacks?“

Sam‘s eyes fly open but they‘re still glassed over. Damn. He didn‘t know the drugs would have that kinda effect, but then again he also just kinda took whatever he could find at the moment. Shoulda looked up the side effects. All he knows is that they include some sorta amnesia. „Dean?“ He asks, all pathetically.

„Sure.“ At least now he lets himself be manhandled up.

The sob that tears itself out of Sam‘s throat feels like it‘s been stuck there for months, it‘s so raw and vulnerable. „Dean,“ he whispers, like a sacrilege, „ _Dean_.“ As they stumble/walk their way back towards the dorm, Sam just keeps repeating that one word, but after the half hour mark his babbling starts growing more and more coherent. Brady doesn‘t say anything, just lets Sam‘s pleas and cries wash over him.

„D, gotta help me. Dean, ‘m sick“

„ _BadDean, i‘mbad, deanhelp“_

„Wann‘ go home“

„‘m _wrong_ , D. _Wrong_.“

 

\--

 

It ends. It ends different than he expected it to, slowly and quietly. Instead of being cut open by Sam‘s sturdy hands, one day he just finds himself alone in an empty dorm room. He‘s not sure exactly how it happened.

That‘s a lie. He knows exactly how, and why. The night they went home from Halloween, Sam just let himself be manhandled on his own bed and then stayed like that, for two whole days. He would bolt out of his covers for the occasional vomiting but other than that, he was a catatonic mess. Brady never thought this would be the outcome of that particular experiment. He always thought Sam would, you know, hulk out. Kill Zombie and who knows, maybe even kill him. He wants him to. Turns out, he forgot to add Sam‘s self loathing into the equation.

He‘s pretty sure Sam forgot most of that night, other than the assault, or maybe he remembers Brady throwing him into the pyre and just chose not to say anything. Such dignity in suffering in silence, he supposes. Before, he never stayed long enough to really witness the consequences of his schemes. The weeping broken families, a society in ruins and distrust, the constant paranoia. He can see it just fine now.

Brady feels like he toyed with his father‘s tools one too many times, it broke, and now he doesn‘t know how to put it back together. He coulda offered his emotional support, but what‘s the point in that? He doesn‘t want Sam getting the wrong idea here. They‘re not _boyfriends,_ for fuck‘s sake. All they are is a predator and his chew toy, and Brady is desperately trying to switch up their roles here but everytime he dangles his meat in front of Sam‘s teeth, all Sam does is close his mouth and pull away. ( _You think I want this, Sam? You think I want you broken and weak?!_ )

After those first two days, Sam finally decides to drag his body out of bed full time, but only to his lectures. Or to the library, or or or. Never so much as lays a finger on anything in Brady‘s side of the room, much less Brady himself. Whenever Brady tries engage him in conversation, usually with a „You okay there, Sammy?“, Sam flinches and convulses so hard into himself it almost looks like a seizure. He doesn‘t speak more than one word these days. Like he‘s desperately trying to forget Brady‘s even here, and whenever he is reminded he‘s automatically back in that alley, with his pants down, dirt and bloody crust under his fingernails. ( _Look what you did, Brady. You broke the poor thing. Good job getting him to go dark side. You pushed and pushed and pushed and Sam never pulled._ )

It feels way too much like his first failure, when he was _so_ sure he had the town folk ensnared in his lies and deceit, and yet when he pulled on the rope to behold his result, all he was greeted with was an angry mob and fire. Or was it rope? He doesn‘t even remember his own death, for fuck‘s sake. What does that say about him?

When Sam happens to be taking a _very_ long stroll to the library, and Azazel comes a‘knocking, Brady isn‘t even sure what to say. „Mein Lehrmeister,“ he breathes, right when he can feel that familiar prod in his brain. Those wrinkly fingers stroking up his spine. „I require guidance.“

_What have you done this time?_

Brady swallows. Harder to do now that he‘s got a fist down his neck, down his entire body. „I might.... have dabbled in less conventional ways to fulfill my assignment. But it seems that Sam is just....“ He‘s really struggling for words here. „He‘s just .... He just is.“

 _You have not failed me yet._ Brady scrunches up his face in confusion. Such encouraging words, he‘s not even sure he heard those uttered out of Azazel‘s pitch black mouth before. _His powers are almost ripe enough for the taking. I can feel it. Do not understate your progress, boy. It‘s not much but it is still enough to build upon._

„What do you suggest?“

_I may have underestimated that Winchester‘s upbringing. It seems that the only emotion they respond to, the call they answer, is vengeance._

„Me?“ Brady‘s mind is already conjuring up various scenarios of his own sacrifice. It should probably terrify him just how much he‘s looking forward to it.

 _No. Subtle manipulation is simply not enough, it seems._ There‘s strong hands, leathery and huge, cupping Brady‘s face. Engulfing his entire being, his soul, or what‘s left of it. A thumb starts stroking his left cheek and the emotions that overwhelm him are enough to make him tear up. This is what he fell for, back in the day. Not the warmth of the pit, or the promise of fame. Just this. _I want you to give him his deepest desire: normalcy. I want you, I need you to cradle him in the fantasy of it, long and strong enough until he has almost forgotten who he is. Give him an innocent sheep to fall for. Leave for a little while. And then, when his heritage is almost completely burned out of him, yank the mask off. Remind him that he will never be save._

Brady isn‘t stupid enough to disobey a direct order like that, so he plans. He goes out more and more, bars mostly, hunting for the perfect victim like someone else would go window shopping. Only problem is, he knows Sam‘s type, painfully so. And let‘s just say, there is a reason that he is a hermit, because most college students are incredibly futile, just a few days away from reverting back to their monkey phases. He‘s also adult enough to admit that every time he finds a girl, or guy, that would fit Sam‘s dream of an apple pie life, all he ends up doing is contemplating on whether he should gut them in an alley or just hex their drinks. So he might be a jealous possessive bastard. Sue him.

Sam is still afraid of him, or he‘s afraid of himself. Either way, Brady‘s not getting laid and it‘s really starting to annoy him. He knows that most of that is irrational, mostly directed at himself, but Sam already has such guilt and fault burdening his shoulder, why not a little more? He treats Brady like an unwanted Poltergeist, neither seen nor heard. It‘s frustrating. After he goes on his much needed holiday, he might have to pay the Brady‘s a visit. He‘s itching for muscles to tear and arteries to open.

He‘s just coming home from another one of those lessons in self restraint, when he hears hushed voices coming from the kitchen. One voice, to be exact. It‘s the most he‘s heard Sam speak in a long time, so of course it spikes his interest. It seems that he‘s arrived at just the right moment, too.

„- Course, I know that life doesn‘t just stop for me.“ Sam is sitting next to the kitchen table, drawn into himself with his phone plastered to his ear. From what Brady can see of his hunched back from the shadows, he looks he‘s just barely holding himself together. ( _You did that._ ) ( _So what?_ ) The feeling of guilt that arises somewhere deep in Brady‘s belly is deeply uncomfortable.

„No, I told you, I -“ Just from the way Sam is being aggressively cut off, Brady already knows who‘s on the other phone. ( _John Winchester, nice to finally make your acquaintance. Hell has such a wonderful field trip planned for you.)_ Sam sighs, his left hand rubbing his temple. His entire body is lightly shaking, like a leaf in the wind. Brady‘s leader, looking utterly frightened and destroyed. Weak, used up. „Yes, sir. Can you _please_ just ask Dean to come to the phone?“ (Sam Winchester, stubborn Sam Winchester, begging his father for something? Interesting.) „I just need to talk to him... No, it‘s not about - .... No, there‘s not a case in Palo Alto, just _liste_ -“ There‘s a moment where Brady thinks Sam will hang up on his own father, but all he does is cover his phone with his other hand and breath in, deeply. Kinda like he‘s trying to hold back a sob, or maybe he‘s suppressing the urge to kill John. Brady would help him if it were the latter. He wonders for how long Sam had to keep it together like that, how many times before he bolted for college that he had to physically restraint himself. He imagines Sam, on a throne built of bones, rolling his eyes at a demon and suppressing his snarky remark. Brady grins.

„No, Dad, I‘m still here...... Yeah..... Yes....“ Sam‘s fingers start clenching around his phone so much, it looks ready to burst. „If he‘s injured, don‘t you think he should take it easy for a little while? .. No, I‘m not saying I wanna be back in, all I‘m saying is that ...... Then take him a hospital, for fuck‘s sake!“ His voices shakes, panic momentarily shifted from himself to his presumably injured brother. Brady hopes Dean bleeds out, right in their motel room, like a pig. „No, sorry, sir.. I wasn‘t- I didn‘t mean it like that..... No, I‘m not questioning your- Look, is Dean in? .... Can you wake him up? ..... I just wanna talk to him, is all. See how he‘s doing. ..... Yea, it‘s why I called _his_ cell and not _yours_.“ Cheeky, Sam. Careful.

From what Brady can tell, John has much the same reaction to that little outburst, he can practically hear the military barking coming out of the other side of that cell phone. For a while, all Sam does is listen, listen to his father guilt trip him most likely and growing more and more anxious. His entire body is vibrating, his form starts growing smaller and smaller, until Sam is but barely seated on the chair and more hunched up into himself, hugging himself in the way that a child would. Sam Winchester‘s psyche looks barely stitched up together by safety pins, and one of the pins just broke. „I‘m fine,“ he says, with such a straight voice and if Brady were a lesser demon he would laugh. Liar, liar, pants on fire. „Yeah,“ Sam‘s voice grows duller and duller with every word, like the act of formulating and uttering English words, let alone sentences, is too much right now. „No, everything is fine. I‘m fine. I‘m sorry I called.... Yeah, I know you‘re busy... I‘m sorry. I won‘t bother you again. Take care of- Just... Just make sure Dean gets better, okay? Don‘t wor-... Don‘t let him worry about me. I‘m okay, it‘s nothing.“ Sam laughs, hollow and depressed. „‚ _Stupid college drama_ ‘, yeah, you‘re right.... You‘re right, I did choose this... Okay, then. Bye.“ He hangs up, the phone clutters on the floor and for a few moments, Sam is just sitting there, catatonic. Utterly still. Brady could draw him like this, this wrecked. It‘s a little while after that that the sobs start, ugly and violent cries that still sound way too restrained to be any sort of relief. He keeps heaving in as much air as possible, like his lungs are burning, and his hands each grip a strand of his hair, pulling and pulling. Brady‘s never seen Sam Winchester treat his brown locks with such disrespect. It‘s eerie to watch, he will admit that. He might even feel bad for the guy, he‘s not an Unmensch. Or well, he is. But he doesn‘t want to be right now.

Brady allows Sam at least the courtesy of sneaking backwards towards the door, pulling it open and letting it shut with a harrowing bang. From this position he can still see Sam‘s head and shoulders snap upwards, like a scared pet. His eyes are blown wide, no doubt. „Sammy?“ Brady lets his feet drag as much as possible, pulling off his shoes on the way to his bed. „‘m home!“ he slurs, hiccuping and falling on top of his bed and his covers. „S time to sleeep....“ He lets himself snore, really obnoxiously, just to ease Sam and make him think he‘s already well over the mountains.

He‘s not, though, which is why he has to painfully witness what happens next: Sam enters their bedroom, starts dressing himself in his warmest jacket, the one he probably got from his brother as a hand-me-down, starts packing his stuff as silently as possible. (Never had much to begin with, right, Sam.) Brady wonders if there‘s even gonna be a trace of him left behind or if he will just vanish, like a phantom.

A little while after he hears the door click shut, Brady stands up again and looks at their room. It‘s almost completely empty, save for his shit strewn about. The silence feels like it‘s choking him.  _So this is what it feels like when children leave their elders, huh? This is what my father felt._

There‘s a note on Sam‘s desk. It‘s not much, seems like he‘d written it before Brady even interrupted him, before the phone call with dear ol‘ Dad, even. Brady feels bitterness rise up his throat while reading it, scalding hot. Sam Winchester really had the audacity to leave him like that, like a beaten housewife with their kids in tow. If only he knew the ashes Brady leaves in his wake whenever he feels pissed and betrayed like that. The carnage. He has no idea what he‘s just gotten himself into. _You think this was brutal, Sam?_ Brady thinks bitterly, crunching up the note in his hand. _Wait til you see the grand finale._

 

 

> _Brady,_
> 
> _I‘m sorry._ ~~_It‘s not_ ~~ _I don‘t know what to say. Just know that I‘m sorry, and that I‘ll still be paying rent so you won‘t have to worry. I_ ~~_wont_ ~~ _can‘t do this anymore. I just need some time to myself. Don‘t worry, I‘m fine. I‘m really sorry._
> 
>  
> 
> _Sam_

 


	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [To the tune of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody] Brady just killed a man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this chapter has one scene with a death count of 4. That's a lot, umm. Jep. I decided, just for convenience and also cuz I'm way too eager to post as soon as I'm done writing something, to let this beast have at least (!) two more chapters instead of just packing 20k words into one final crescendo.  
> TW: emotional manipulation (do I have to TW this at all anymore? Kinda goes w/o saying), torture, at least 6 separate murders in this one, three of those children (if you wanna skip that whole gorey bit skip the scene starting with "You know.." and "Opening night", although it's not that graphic imo)
> 
>  
> 
> If my girlfriend is reading this (which is highly likely given that I told her to, lol), then: Hi! It's our 2 months anniversary on the day that I post this. I know that's super cheesy and not at all appropriate given the chapter's subject matter and that I just rattled off 4 different triggers in the notes but: happy official-official anni(/monthi?)versary! I know you complimented my writing before, but I think yours is pretty swell (and way more historically accurate). I'm super lucky that you want to willingly spend time with me even when I spend most of my days in a Kermit onesie and I write disturbing shit like this. Thanks for knowing my interests so well and gifting me the witch city tour that started this all as a Valentine's day present. That's it kthxbye

Sam doesn‘t show up the next day. Or the day after that. By the fourth day, Brady is positively seething with rage, desperately needing an outlet. He knows he can‘t just sniff the fucker out and make him pay right then and there. All in it‘s due time.

So Brady does what he always does when he has time to kill and far too many possibilities waiting for him: He goes on a crusade. Takes his entire booze collection, his pills, everything, puts them in the trunk of the car he stole from the parking lot a couple streets over, and just drives. It helps that he has an actual reason for doing this too, seeing as Azazel had sent him a message with just coordinates and a name. A female name. Brady doesn‘t know what the poor cow did to piss off his teacher, and he doesn‘t wanna know. She‘s canon fodder, for all he cares.

The drive takes about 5 hours and he doesn‘t stop once. Doesn‘t even slow down enough to take a gulp of his flask, just keeps on driving the highway to hell while getting absolutely shitfaced. How dare Sam Winchester. _How dare he._ After all the efforts, all the planning that went into convincing Sam to go dark side and now this? Plan B? A gone with the wind situation, where Brady doesn‘t even know where he _is_ or who he‘s _with?_ Anything could happen, for fuck‘s sake. Another demon might think they could get lucky, or Sam might get stabbed. Or worse: Sam might meet someone kind with his mental well being at heart, and have that person try to undo all the landmines Brady has so carefully laid out in Sam‘s mind. Satan forbid he gets some therapy _now,_ at the worst possible moment. That would be just his luck.

Finding his target is relatively easy. It doesn‘t surprise Brady to find out that she‘s a single mother of a 6 months old, or that said baby‘s birthday is today. He‘s just here to give him Azazel‘s present. It does, however, surprise him the continued orders Azazel had given him. _Kill them both. Use our old method._ So Azazel wants him to play the arsonist, fine, but to what end? What‘s the endgame?

His victim is currently taking out the trash, wiping her face clean off sweat with one hand and juggling a trash bag full of baby diapers with the other. The poor thing looks stressed. Maybe he should help her out. He would, if only he wasn‘t currently occupied with killing his liver and stewing in hate with his car parked safely in an alley. His chosen lady for the night doesn‘t so happen to live in a house, no, this is the first time he‘s had to do his thing in a multiple storey apartment complex. That might.... complicate things a little. Or spice it up. Depends on how much he keeps drinking until tonight.

Brady eyes the trash cans curiously, one is clearly already full to the brink with shit, but the other one is suspiciously clean. And small. Just small enough to fit a human into. Interesting. An idea is starting to form behind his eyelids, one that‘s bound to make him relive the good ol‘ times. Back during his last trip topside, humans had this neat little torture device they would use for witch interrogations. It was like a small metal dog cage, complete with spikes at each end, just big enough to allow a fully grown human to fit in, like a fucked up version of Tetris, but just small enough to break some bones and strain some muscles while doing so. A miniature trash can is hardly the painful masterpiece _that_ had been, but he also doesn‘t have enough time to waste to break into the local medieval torture museum. Maybe once he‘s back home he‘ll go look for it online, on the Google. Or Ebay. He hears you can just about find anything on there.

 

\--

 

„You know,“ he says, lighting his cigarette and taking a big drag of the sweet, sweet poison, „You‘ve got a lovely home, I must say. I love what you‘ve done with the place, especially the nursery. Meticulous decorating, really.“ The answer is a muffled cry and scream, coming from his choice of sitting furniture and makeshift dungeon. He ended up scratching that trash can idea when he saw that the nice lady even had the courtesy of having a large enough trunk in her living room. Presumably it was used to store additional blankets, which is such a waste of a good torture opportunity. The lid of the trunk shakes under his ass a little bit. Impressive. „IKEA should hire you. Really.“ He laughs at his own dumb joke, already way too pissed to technically be on duty. Drinking on the job? Not a good look. What Azazel doesn‘t know won‘t hurt him, however.

„You know,“ he says, snorting, „You should be glad I decided to forego the trash can idea. Isn‘t this so much nicer? Back then, these things had spikes, even. Now _that‘s_ a stylish way of doin‘ it.“ Another scream, this time louder. Too bad he has the radio turned all the way up, to a rock/metal station. This is the third time in an hour that the station has played Evanescence. He would really hate to be murdered to the sound of Amy Lee begging someone to call her name and save her from the dark. That would just about ruin his day.

He sighs. „No one here appreciates what I do for them. Do you have that problem too? When everyone just ... seems to take your work for granted?“ He looks sideways at a picture on the wall, of a fattened baby in the arms of its mother smiling up at the camera. He wonders how long that photo took to take, for the baby to stop doing the fussing that babies are known to be doing. „Or, pardon me, maybe you do. After all, being a single mother of a loud creature who‘s only default settings are shitting or barfing has gotta be straining. And people just expect you to do it, you know? Like, you have no choice in the matter.“ He slams his fist on the treasure trunk, making the passenger inside whimper loudly. „Where‘s the goddamn _choice,_ people?!“

By now his head is really starting to swim in alcohol. Bad idea. He lies down just as the channel switches the song to one he knows well, and quite frankly, finds hilarious. _Bohemian Rhapsody_? Really? Cliché. Brady tries to sing along to Freddie Mercury‘s franctic high pitched singing as best as he can. „ _I‘m just a poor boy, nobody loves me_ , hmm. God, I hate that song.“ There‘s a harrowing muffled scream coming from his little treasure trove, just once, but long enough to have different octaves. Then it‘s over, all too soon, followed by a weird wet sound and then silence. That poor woman must hate Queen, too, huh. Join the club. He sighs, blowing kisses up into the sky. He meant to say something, earlier. He only wishes he knew _what._

_Beelzebub has a devil put aside for meee_

Oh, _right_. Sam. „He just up and left me, ya know? After everything we‘ve been through? Do you think that‘s fair, do you?! Do you think that‘s _just_?!“ He snorts, rubbing his temple with his left hand. Shit, forgot he had blood splatter on there from earlier, now his face is all dirty. Ehh, whatever. „Ya know, he really has no idea what kinda shit he‘s gotten himself into. He‘s kinda like you in that aspect,“ He grins, „A little sheep to the slaughter. You wouldn‘t believe me if I‘da told you he was s‘posed to lead the apocalypse, would you? No, I s‘pose ya wouldn‘t. Fuckin‘.... Hurensohn.“ He snorts. The trunk under him has grown suspiciously quiet, considering how hotly uncomfortable it must be in there. He starts standing up, ready to hold up the lid. Brady wonders for a moment if the woman could be smart enough to trick him, but he decides against it. Besides, even if she did, it wouldn‘t really matter in the long run. There‘s no way in hell a human can outrun a demon, even an intoxicated, classic rock listening, chatty demon. No way.

When he opens the trunk all he‘s greeted with is wide, lifeless eyes staring back at him. There‘s vomit dampening the makeshift gag in her mouth and flowing down her chin. The heart has definitely stopped beating, he can see that all the way from up here. _Urgh._ He really should‘ve planned that one ahead. Back in his time, he never had to worry about things like noise cancellation, because who cares if someone could hear them back then? Not like anyone was gonna go run for help. Most interrogation cells used to also be located in these neat little hole prisons, deep under the city. Damp, dark and quiet. Perfect.

Brady looks at the woman‘s eyes. They‘re the clearest ocean blue. He sighs. „You would‘ve been a miserable witch,“ he scolds the corpse, kicking the trunk to the side with the force of his right foot. The body tumbles out its hiding place like a puppet with its strings cut off. „Really, dying during the first torture session? At least pay me the respect of croaking until _after_ the dungeon.“ He huffs. Lousy listener, too. Talk about friendly hospitality.

He doesn‘t stop pouting even after he lights the metaphorical match and watches the whole apartment, including the staged baby photos and IKEA furniture, catch on fire. The smaller monkey is still sleeping when the flames start licking their ways up the nursery walls. It all feels a little too boring to be a true stress relief.

Brady shakes off the stench of smoke and cooked flesh, gets in the driver‘s seat, and races like hell back home. He stops at the last gas station on the way to Palo Alto, throws away his canned trash, and buys himself a processed sugary diabetes trap called _Snickers_ , the ad having proclaimed ‚you‘re not you when you‘re hungry‘. Afterwards, he doesn‘t feel better.

 

\--

 

Brady doesn‘t see Sam again until around a week later, when he gets a text on his cell to „please come see me at so and so‘s café, tomorrow at 3“. Not even a „Hi, how have you been?“, huh? Interesting. Just a cryptic location and time, and that‘s all he‘s worth in texts, apparently.

Azazel‘s reasons had made themselves known soon enough after his little excursion a couple states over, when Brady was watching a boring news channel spread about the tragic, tragic fire that suspiciously only wrecked one two bedroom apartment in a whole complex. When the camera panned around the wreckage and the horrified onlookers, was when Brady had seen him. Just for a second, barely enough to make out details, but he‘d been looking for clues and there he was. John Winchester, in a crowd of normal bystanders, looking mute and resolute and exactly the way Brady had imagined him to look. Kind of older than he‘d imagined, weary like old boots. He doesn't get the hype. So that‘s what that had been, huh? A decoy for dear ol‘ Johnny. Something to occupy the hunter‘s time while the grown ups did their thing. Glad he could have been of assistance.

With that in mind, it‘s easier to meet Sam at the café more level headed, and not lose his shit right after he sees him. And boy, does he need it. Sam Winchester is sitting in a table in the far corner of California‘s probably cheapest coffee joint, anxiously playing with his fingers. He looks about ready to jump out of his skin. He ordered coffee. Brady grinds his teeth so hard his entire face clenches.

He decides that Sam doesn‘t deserve the courtesy of a „Hello“ before he flops himself into the plastic chair opposite Sam‘s. Sam jumps, but then seems to relax, or forcing his body to. „Hey,“ he says, coughing and sipping his drink nervously. If Brady had any opportunity, he would spike his fucking bean juice, just for old time‘s sake. Because Brady has accepted a long time ago that he absolutely is _that_ petty bitch. „How.... How you been?“ Sam apparently thinks that his fingers are the most interesting part of the conversation. _(You did this.) (So what?! He gave me no fucking choice!) (Didn‘t he?)_

„Ehhh, okay,“ he says, because it‘s the truth. He pointedly leaves out the _'double homicide to make myself feel better'_ part. And then, to ease Sam‘s anxiety a little, he adds in a hushed tone: „Might go see my folks for a little bit. Take some time off. Go to rehab.“

Sam seems to visibly relax at the word ‚rehab‘. Oh, if only he knew what he meant by that. ( _Rehab from you, Sammy. I‘m gonna go have a nice relaxing holiday with my blades and matches. They don't disappoint me.)_ „That‘s good,“ Sam sighs, giving him an encouraging smile. „I‘m glad you‘re willing to take that step. That takes some guts.“ _(Oh, it‘s gonna be some guts. Starting with Mama Brady‘s, just cause I feel like it. For you.)_

„Oh, now you wanna compliment me?“ Brady seethes, laying his hand on the table and strategically placing it next to Sam‘s. Their index fingers end up touching just the slightest bit. „What happened to ‚Can‘t do this‘?“

Sam tenses but doesn‘t withdraw his hand. He looks genuinely sorry, the fucker. „I‘m sorry I left like that. I just ... I needed to go.“

Brady‘s brain doesn‘t really seem to be working the way it should, because the next thing out of his mouth is: „You do a whole lot of that, don‘t you? Leaving.“ Damn it. He‘s supposed to earn back his trust long enough to hand him his sacrificial lamb, not gaslight him into oblivion. Old habits die hard. His go to reaction to Sam disappointing him has long been punishment, and right now the only tool available to him is his sharp tongue.

Sam flinches and finally, _finally,_ starts looking into Brady‘s eyes. „I‘m sorry,“ he says, with all the emotions in the world. He huffs out a bitter laugh. „Fuck, I‘m sorry for so much, I don‘t even know where to _begin_ , you know? I feel like I ruined you.“

 _(You ruined yourself. Ruined your potential. I‘m fine.)_ „You didn‘t ruin me, Sam,“ Brady answers, uncomfortable. This isn‘t really going the way he thought it would. For one, his anger is slowly starting to bleed out of him. He‘s afraid that after this will be over, he will leave behind the invisible puddle of blood on the tiles and have none of it left for the grand finale anymore. And he can‘t have that. „I‘m sorry, too.“

Sam doesn‘t really seem to believe him, at least about the him not being the bad guy, because he just lets out another one of those bitter laughters of his. „Yeah, right.“ Brady takes a chance and plants his hand more firmly on Sam‘s. He doesn‘t back away. „Point is, ummm.. that I‘m sorry. For hurting you.“

Brady wants to laugh. _(You? Hurting me? Please.)_ Instead he just smiles. Brady dissected him like a fish, left him to bleed out on the carpet, yet here Sam is, apologizing for his guts spilling out and for the bloody mess on the floor. Oh, Sam. He'll never grow tired of his self hate. „We both did some... fucked up shit. But hey, look at us. Both trying to clean up after our messes.“ He doesn‘t want this, damn it. He doesn‘t want to bring some lamb to the slaughter. It was always supposed to be him and Sam. Fuck Plan B. Brady places all his cards on the table and grabs Sam‘s hand fully, using his thumb to stroke the bulging blue vein on his palm. „We could..... try to help each other? Better each other, you know? Together.“

 _(Come back to me, Sam. Let us finish your training. Don‘t let Azazel be right. He doesn‘t know you, I know you! I know what you are, what you want. Let me be your lamb, Sam.)_ It‘s all that and more, mixed together in two open ended questions.

It‘s at that moment that Sam chooses to resolutely pull his hand away. If Brady were human, his heart would be breaking for his king to be, his would be leader. For the road he has chosen to take. As it is, there‘s only that dull feeling in Brady‘s stomach. „Sorry, I can‘t. I just ... Aren‘t you scared of what I‘ve done? Of what I could do?“

 _(No. I‘m scared of what you‘re doing now.)_ „No,“ Brady answers, and he means it. „I like that part of you. I‘m not scared.“ Also truth. He‘s speaking so much truth here, he‘s not quite used to that anymore.

Poor Sammy looks just about ready to cry. „Well, I am. Scared. Of myself, I mean,“ He quickly adds that last part, so as not to offend him. _(And not of little ol‘ me? I‘m hurt.)_ „I‘m scared of myself when I‘m ... with you. Don‘t get me wrong, we can still be friends. I'll still help you with recovery, if you want me to.“ Sam Winchester, ever the selfless hero. Disgusting. „But I should really... find some other place to live. I‘ve already asked the college for a different room. Just so we can both.... move on.“

Brady grins warmly. „What, you don‘t think I can control myself enough not to jump your bones? Give me some credit here.“ Sam blushes and looks to the side and during that moment, as if by some heaven sent, or hell, Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore cross eyes from across the room. There‘s a spark in the air even Brady can feel. He knows Jess from one of his classes, but he for the life of him can‘t remember what. Miss Moore, in terms of sheep material, she‘s not the best. Not even in his top 10. More like Number 16. Which is why he‘s even more confused when Sam just shyly averts her gaze after a while, pointedly looking at his mug and forgetting all about his demonic (literally) ex sitting across from him. Jess bites her lips from across the bar.

Brady watches the silent exchange with a certain resolute bitterness. He wants to take Sam by the shoulders and shake him, hard, until common sense returns to him. „You like her?“ he asks, tone pointedly playful and yet feeling anything but.

_(Is this what you want, Sam?? Number 16?! That how you want to play this?? Really? You‘re choosing a blonde snack over me?!)_

Sam just stutters in response, like an absolute mess. Dude‘s absolutely helpless with flirting, so Brady just shakes his head and makes his way, despite Sam‘s vocal protests, towards the blonde temptation a few tables over. He knows his spiel, the „Oh, don‘t I know you“, charming compliments on her English essays and enunciation.

When he lands the death blow, already painting out which arteries of hers his knife should cut open first, and tells her about his nice but shy friend over there, who was just about _dying_ to talk to her, he knows he‘s got her hooked. Jessica just laughs and accompanies him back to his table. Thing is, Jessica Moore is actually quite smart, which is why she‘s not higher up on his list of potential victims. She seems genuinely bright and quick on her feet like not a lot of college students are. He finds her death sentence quite depressing, actually, but this is Sam‘s doing.

„Jess, meet my good friend Sam Winchester,“ he announces, smile all white teeth, „Sam Winchester, Jessica Moore.“ He‘s waiting for any sign of disinterest on Sam‘s face, anything to justify breaking them apart. Instead, there‘s nothing but a blooming romance forming right in front of him.

Brady wants to scream, wants to trash the whole place and yell: _So that‘s it, Sam? That‘s really what you want? A boring life over the thrill and fire I could give you?? Fine, then. Fucking fine! Have it your way!_ He wants to stab every single coffee addict in this fucking shop in the eyes, including the two lovebirds in front of him. He wants to torch the world.

Brady _needs_ to leave. When he excuses himself and Sam manages to get a hold of his arm with a „Are you sure?“, Brady gives him the grin he usually reserves for his victims when they ask him if he will let them go, when they proclaim their innocence even after torture. It stretches his whole face wide and yet his eyes just look dull and dead. „Yeah, you guys go on without me. I'm beat, I‘ll just go home.“

_(Remember, you chose this route, Sam. You did, not me, not Azazel, no one else. You. The outcome is all on you. I fucking warned you. You made your bed, and sooner or later you‘ll have to lie in it, too.)_

 

_\--_

 

He ends up finding that torture device on Ebay, funny enough. The price is outrageously high, but Brady lets himself splurge for once, and ends up shipping his family‘s coffins right to their door step. 5 boxes for four, bought one extra just in case. Always come prepared for the unexpected. After his little failed experiment with Sam, he‘s pretty much free to do whatever he wants until Azazel beckons him back to the front. So long as he doesn‘t attract _too_ much attention, of course, don‘t want any hunters getting suspicious. It feels like a long, long summer holiday and to be quite honest, he‘s not quite sure what to do with himself. Torturing the Brady bunch will only get him so far, the deed itself will take, what? About a week, at most. If he _really_ takes his time. HBO marathons can only entertain him so much. So he figures, what the hell? Why not reenact one of his favorite memories in a play, a play just for him. His own little Battle Royale.

Turns out, though, planning a mass homicide takes some time. And budget. First he has to plan out the characters, then the stage design, then the extras. Calculate every little mistake he might make, every little mishap of his. Never again will he leave his schemes up to fate, like he did back in Nürnberg. Fool me twice.

Tyson Brady has two younger brothers and loving, doting parents. The youngest kid is barely big enough to be let out of the house unsupervised. In his time, a son like that would by now already be picking up his father‘s profession. Brady was originally supposed to be a blacksmith, just like his father before him, and his father‘s father. Kids these days play Pokémon and complain about their parents on their MySpace profiles. Oh, how the good times have gone. High time to bring them back, if you ask Brady.

For weeks, he finds himself holed up in his dorm room, planning and scheming every possible plot hole. Brady doesn't see Sam once and honestly? Dude could sleep under a bridge for all he cares. Their forced seperation is all under the cover of _needing time for themselves_ , of course. Brady doesn't need time for himself (more like for other people, four in fact) and Sam really shouldn't. Satan forbid he might learn some healthy sense of self love. That would just be horrid.

He spends five whole days just with researching ancient entrapment spells, enchantments, etc. in the local library. Oh, if only Sam could see him now. Wouldn‘t he be proud to know he‘s finally taking his studies seriously? Maybe he should let him proof read the screenplay.

After Brady‘s done setting everything up and buying the decorations online (thank Satan for the internet) he goes home for one final test run. Tyson‘s parents are ecstatic to see him after so many months of absolute radio silence, the clueless fuckers welcome their family‘s demise with open arms and Brady really has to restrain himself a couple of times not to look _too_ eager. He has to play the part of grumpy college jock here. He doesn‘t even care enough to learn their names through his meat suit‘s memories. His body is practically buzzing with excitement.

Such a pity Tyson bit the bullet so soon, he really should have seen the fabulous actors his family make. Academy award worthy, really.

 

–

 

Opening night. Time to raise the curtain. The people deserve a good show.

FIRST ACT. There‘s a witch in Bamberg. Their cows‘ milk has grown sour, good Christians have fallen ill and their livestock is dying. Faulty weather is to be blamed at first, but after a practically harsh winter it is starting to grow more and more apparent that this is not God‘s work at play. Daddy dearest has left the building.

Not to worry, though, because a new witch hunter has just entered the city‘s gates, one practically known for his efficiency. A man of unswayable integrity and a kind heart, particularly to those in need. Devout church goer. Charming. Sublime confidence.

The farmer‘s youngest boy is the first accused. Young for a witch, and male, but never let it be said that our dear witch hunter is sexist. After further examination through the iron rod, he confesses quick enough. Asks for his accomplices to be spared. The spectacle barely takes a day before it‘s decided that he‘s to be hanged. Such a barren boy doesn‘t fuel the flames nearly enough to justify a public execution. That would just be underwhelming, even for the crowd. Love thy neighbor as thy self, and the witch hunter decides that if this was his family member he would want a quick, relatively painless death. After all, the boy played his part quite well. There‘s no roaring audience as the sinner is hanged, and even the executioner ends up leaving with a bitter taste in his mouth. Satan‘s follies rarely get caught so easily.

After the boy‘s death, though, there‘s still a foul stench going about the city, like a black shadowy hand is preying on the people. The society is in shambles, and no one believes in a realistic solution anymore. Everyone at this point knows what‘s to come, after the first death.

 _So bring forth the next victim_ , the witch finder thinks grimly. _Let‘s snuff out the disease at once, like a tumor._ He finds the boy‘s father suspicious from the get go, way too eager to battle for his son‘s life. Rebellious. Our hunter doesn‘t like the man, he doesn‘t like him one bit. Maybe he just detests father figures in general. He‘s afraid the rogue will try to sway the other church goers to his side of rebellion. One black sheep will lead even the most obedient flock astray, that‘s what his mentor had taught him. So he strikes hard and fast.

The man sadly doesn‘t survive the first day in the dungeon. Turns out, if you try to squeeze an object into too small a box, and you apply _just_ the right amount of force, eventually something will give. That something ends up being his spinal cord. A wail goes around the community, but the city walls are impenetrable. Not a single cry makes it past the borders.

The witch hunter feels sorry for the fresh widow, he really does. Such a terrible burden to bare, to have one part of your close knit family turn rotten and infect the others. And infection travels fast, so the antidotes have to be twice as fast. There‘s nothing quite like hearing the _snap_ of your loved ones. He allows the town to grieve their losses for a while. He‘s not sadistic, just good at his job. Still, the show must go on.

The stench of evil is growing fouler and fouler by the minute. No one makes it out, not even the dead. Not until the final curtain closes.

For his third and final act, the witch hunter decides that drowning will be the most foolproof way to sniff them out. There‘s no well or river at hand, but our hero came prepared. He knows the damage water can wreak upon evil, so he lets the remaining towns people build him a makeshift well. He cleverly calls it a _'swimming pool'_. At this point, everyone‘s spirit is too broken to object. Even the new widow ends up helping with dull, lifeless eyes. It‘s not deep enough to drown someone in, but that was never his end goal. He still prefers the fire.

The widow confesses before she‘s even accused, surprisingly. Just after the first _swimming exercise_. (Thing is, she's not the one learning to paddle.) Swears allegiance to Satan and everything malevolent, just to save her second last son. Or well, her last. Supposedly she has another one, but that one hasn‘t made himself known at all during this whole ordeal. No matter how many times she tries to speak him into existence, he remains buried underneath the floors. Our main hero thinks she‘s by now starting to realize that she lost that one a long, long time ago.

The selfless mother falls down on her knees in front of him and begs. For a moment there, a small moment, he considers it. Considers granting her wish. But then again, his reputation relies heavily on his efficiency and the iron clad fist he slays his enemies with. Can‘t leave open threads like that. What will his mentor think?

He does grant her some form of mercy though, because in the end he allows her and her last standing offspring the courtesy of burning in each other‘s arms. At least like this, neither of them will have to watch the other die before them and endure a miserable, lonely life. He‘s quite merciful in that regard, the witch hunter thinks. Doesn‘t the bible teach exactly this kind of mercy? He even tells them that as the flames start licking up their flesh. For some reason they don‘t seem to agree, telling him to go to hell. Funny, seeing as how they're making their journey down there themselves right this moment. Can‘t appease everyone, he supposes, especially not witches. Terribly hard to satisfy, those folks. Rude, too. At least now the toxins drown out the smell of the decay.

END SCENE. That‘s a wrap. Round of applause for everyone involved, especially the director, if he may say so. Now let the final curtain call, or in this case the final entrapment spell. Cut.

Tyson Brady stands in his family‘s house, the house he grew up in, and watches the flames engulf his big debut. All the family portraits on the walls have by now caught fire, his and his family‘s face look distorted and wild. All of his most priced set details have made it to safety already, just in case he needs them again. He thinks he might have to do a rerun of this some time.

With bloody and soiled hands he claps and claps, and he doesn‘t stop clapping even after he has safely transported himself away from the wreckage. He bows, accepts the crowd‘s cheers and applause with open arms. In another life he should have pursued the arts, instead. (Maybe he will. Rumor has it there's a few demons in Hollywood.)

_Bravo._

 

\--

 

There are 3 voicemails left by a certain Samuel Winchester. All received exactly a week after the news of his family‘s tragedy has started spreading, and local authorities have officially ruled it an accident. Supposedly there's evidence of faulty wiring. Rest in pieces.

They are not the only messages he‘s received so far, but they‘re the only ones he deems interesting enough to listen to. Everything else goes straight in the bin. (Azazel‘s call was the only one he answered. His bus back home leaves tonight.)

BEEP First message, received three days ago, 6:14 pm. 

> „Dude, are you okay?? I ... I saw the news. Shit, I don‘t know what to say. Brady.... Fuck. I‘m sorry. _I‘m so sorry._ Please, _please_ just answer the phone, ok? I know I‘m probably the last person you wanna be hearing from right now, but I just .... don‘t think you should be alone right now. Okay? Call me. Bye.“ BEEP _(But I‘m not alone, Sammy. I‘ve got all the company I could ever need. Can‘t you hear the people clap, Sam? They‘re screaming my name.)_

Second message, received two days ago, 11:58 pm. 

> „Sorry, I know it‘s late and you‘re probably asleep... Or not. But I just can‘t stop thinking about you, and what you must be feeling right now. I know we never really talked about it, or well, I ... I guess I never talked about it. But I lost my mom in a fire too, you know? When I was a kid. I know it‘s not .... that that‘s not really comparable. I just lost her, still had everyone else, and I didn‘t even know her that well, I mean I was just a baby, and you .... You ... Point is, I know what it‘s like thinking you should have been the one to die, instead. Trust me... Just... Whatever you might feel like right now, you‘re not alone, okay? You have people that care about you. Jess worries about you too, you know. We all worry. Please just come home.“ BEEP

Last message, received today, 5:07 am.

> „Hey, Brady. Hope you‘re good- not- not _good_ , of course you‘re not good, _idiot._ Hope you‘re .... coping...? My offer still stands, by the way. Me and Jess have a couch to spare... Just, just so you know, I‘m not gonna be in Palo Alto for the next 2 days, ummm...“ „Hurry the fuck up, Sammy, we ain‘t got all night!“ „It‘s _morning_ , jerk! Fuck, sorry, not you, Brady. That was, umm.. That was my brother, if you can believe that. Jep, the one and only. The first time I see him after 2 years of radio silence and it‘s only cuz of a family emergency... Whatever. I will be home by Monday, promise. Jess is home, though, and she‘s a pretty good listener, believe me. She‘ll be here, waiting for you. If you, if you decide you might need some company. Also, I‘m really not trying to inconvenience you in your time of mourning or whatever, but could you at least text me? Just so I know you‘re okay? I‘ll have my phone with me 24/7, might not answer calls cuz of the ..... phone reception up at the cabin. But I‘ll answer, swear,“ 10 SECONDS REMAINING „ _Damn it!_ Shit shit fuck, okay Brady, bye, just know that-“ BEEP

Brady ends up texting him anyways, just to ease his conscience. He decides against his usual emoji vomit. Quantity over quality. He's in mourning, after all. One sad face per text is only appropriate. 

 

> _i‘m ok. i think. don‘t worry. coming home on monday, fyi. see u then. good luck w ur fam :(_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hurensohn = son of a whore/son of a bitch  
> In case you were hungry for some more obscure historical facts (the two people reading this, w/e I'm having fun), the torture device he's talking about was the only routenly used during witch trials. It was literally a metal cage for humans the size of maybe a midi sized suitcase. Or a dog kennel. And you would just be squished in there for *days*, way underground in the city's dungeons. No outside contact and just barely any light from the sun shining through cracks and small holes. Even for people back then, if you were relatively normal sized, that ordeal was bound to give you *at the very least* some cracked ribs and sprained muscles.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Palo Alto, 2005: Someone's getting roasted, and Jess ain't the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this chapter took, this is by far the most important scene of the whole fanfic and I.... got self conscious. I also started uni again, and to top it all off got pretty freakin sick so. The next chapter will most likely take even longer, knowing me and my time schedule, and will be an epilogue of sorts. About a very special episode from season 5 of this hell show.  
> TW: torture, some mild gore  
> I also completely forgot to mention that my friend Lisa made a pinterest board for this fanfic and I love it so freaking much, so go take a look: https://nl.pinterest.com/lisasaesthetic/fanfiction-malleus-maleficarum/

4 hours. That‘s the deadline Azazel had given him to get his show on the road, until Sam would show up and crash their little party. 4 hours isn‘t a whole lot of time to torture someone, he must admit. In hell that would be barely enough for him to do a little warm up before the sprint. It doesn‘t help that he had been given the strict order not to get _too_ swept away in the moment, this was supposed to look like Azazel had done it, after all. So, no too visible wounds, and definitely no decapitation or burn marks, not until Sam could see her. Boring. Suffice to say, Brady feels a little pressured here.

When he‘d first arrived to Sam and Jess‘ house, he just had to laugh. It wasn‘t exactly what he‘d expected. It‘s a house, first of all, one that looks suspiciously too nice for a couple of dirt poor college students. But he also doesn‘t really care enough to dwell further on that.

Jess invites him in easy enough, though Brady can tell she‘s a little uneasy around him. Some of that good natural instinct making her feel a deep unsettling pit in her stomach, he‘s sure. Smart girl, but not smart enough to not kill him on the spot. Like Sam, she‘s just too damn _friendly_. Jess Moore invites her murderer into her house with a hug and the offer of some beer. She looks at him puzzled after his reply of „not this country‘s“, like she can see the screws loose in his head, (she has no idea) but then just goes back to whatever else she‘d been doing. Which ends up being cookies, apparently. He thinks. You know, it‘s really hard to tell under all that blackened crust.

Jess curses under her breath. „Damn it, this was supposed to be a surprise.“ She has an apron on, covered in flour from head to toe. „This freaking oven just hates me.“

Brady‘s smile is vaguely wolfish when he grabs the apron lying around, imagining Sam wearing this one, both of them in their cute little kitchen with their cute little smiles and cute hand holding. Infuriating. He can‘t wait to cut Jess open. „Well, let‘s fight this demonic oven together, then. Maybe it likes me better.“ Brady thinks he‘s hilarious.

Jess looks at him, horrified. „Oh, no, I couldn‘t possibly- I mean ....“ she stumbles. „I mean, if you want? You don‘t have to, though. If you don‘t want to. You must be pretty beat from the bus ride, I‘m sure.“

Brady gives her a lopsided grin as he ties the white apron around his waist. He gets why Sam picked her, after all. They both share the same disgusting kindness. Maybe while he has his way with her, he‘ll imagine Sam being the one lying under his knife. That would certainly feel..... therapeutic. „Nah, I basically snoozed through the whole 4 hours,“ he shrugs her off, already assembling the ingredients they need. Of course he knows how to make chocolate chip cookies, _of course._ He might be a demon but he‘s not barbaric. Brady makes sure to crank up the cry fest a little. „‘Sides, if my hands are occupied maybe my brain is, too. Can‘t really think when you‘re stuffing yourself full of cookie dough and possibly getting salmonella in the process.“ For a brief second he wonders if demon can even get those. Probably not. One of the perks of his job description, he supposes, he doesn‘t really have to worry about his diet. Other than the extensive salt.

Jess winces, probably just now remembering Sam telling her about the horrible, tragic reason he‘s here. „Yeah,“ she says, affectionately putting her flour covered hand on his left shoulder and leaving a white hand print on his dark shirt. Is it crazy to see a little symbolism in that? Probably. „I heard. Listen, I‘m here if you wanna talk. I‘m also here if you just wanna bake cookies.“

( _Are you also here for me if I asked you to be my new canvas?_ ) He gives her his warmest smile, one he learned from Tyson‘s, bless him, muscle memory. „Cookies sound good, but thanks.“

So that‘s what they do, the two of them, a human and a demon wearing white aprons. Baking cookies. In the kitchen of the future king of hell. Oh, if only Azazel could see him now, he would scold him most likely. He knows exactly what he‘d say, too. _‚Stop playing with your food. You have work to do.‘_

They don‘t really talk all that much during the whole baking process, surprisingly. He thought Jess would be more chatty, more happy cheerleader and less the nervous about kitchen work wreck before him. She‘s not wearing make up and her hair is a mess of frizzy curls with flour and butter highlights. Certainly not the worst Sam could have picked. Well done.

Once they‘ve kneaded the dough into nice little round cookies and put them in the oven, Brady claps his hands together and witnesses a thousand white molecules flying through the air. „Well, that was definitely fun. And messy.“

Jess gives him a look and wrinkles her nose. „You think that was messy? Wait til we have to clean out all those bowls and dishes.“ ( _Oh, you have no idea._ ) She blows a few strands of hair away from her face. „You‘ve never made cookies before? Seriously?“

The girl scout cookie selling market is sadly non existent in hell, he‘s afraid. Shame. He might enjoy snacks in between sessions. „Not really,“ he admits, shrugging his shoulders in a way that he knows makes him look less intimidating and towering. Humans and their mannerisms to appear less threatening than they are. „Let‘s just say my family wasn‘t really the.... cookie type.“

He can just about see Jess wince behind him as he makes his way toward their fridge, taking out one of those god awful beverages Americans call beer. Might as well. Brady leans against the cool fridge while taking a swig. „Jesus,“ he grimaces, „You people really don‘t know shit about brewery, do ya?“

Jess‘ back is against the counter, and her fingers are suspiciously close to the knife block. Probably doesn‘t even realize she‘s doing it, just like she didn‘t notice that she hasn‘t turned her back on him once. Atta girl. At least one person in this relationship seems to have common sense, even if it‘s too little, too late. „You people?“

Brady sucks air in through his teeth, letting his vision roam the room. Besides the knife, there really isn‘t much to defend yourself with. She could try strangling him with an apron, or try to flee. It‘s thrilling, not knowing her next move. He‘s got 3 hours to kill, after all. That‘s an eternity and a half, even if he calculates in a little snack break. „Americans, sweetie,“ he replies, all dimples and teeth. „Where I come from, we took this stuff _very_ seriously. I mean, one had to, I guess. When the water is full of shit and pestilence.“ Brady sighs, momentarily lost in thought at the fond memory of witnessing neighbors throw their shit down the Pegnitz. He wonders if they still do that, pathetic apes that they are. In the corner of his vision, he can see Jess start twitching nervously. She probably thinks he‘s drunk again, or high, or high and drunk. When in reality it‘s so much worse. „Back then you would get hanged for this. Heh, or burned.“ He starts swinging his beer back and forth, looking at the piss gold mixture inside the tinted glass for a second before flinging it across the room with more force than necessary. Good riddance. He can hear it shatter all the way in the hall of the living room, just as clear as he can hear Jess‘ surprised intake of breath.

„Brady,“ she says, voice shaking but standing her ground. „I think you should leave.“

The way she utters those words is so sure, so faux confident that he just has to laugh. He‘s probably leaving spit and flour everywhere because his entire body just starts shaking with a sound that‘s decidedly not human. Brady bites his lips and looks at the girl standing in front of him, trying to make herself appear taller. Oh, this is going to be so much _fun. „_ No can do, sorry sugar. My boss, you see, he really, _really_ doesn‘t like you, for some reason. Can‘t imagine why.“ There‘s confusion and fear written all over her face and Brady ignores the latter in favor of the former, waving her off. „Or, I can. After all, here you are, trying to corrective therapize his _son_? His golden boy? Trying to make an honest man out of the adversary?? Ts, nope.“

„J-John Winchester sent you?“ she asks, scanning him up and down, probably looking for any hidden weaponry. Putting on a show for her, he stretches his arms out wide, in a very lazy crucifying position. No luck, except for his charming personality and killer smile.

Brady snorts, suddenly offended at his master‘s behalf. „That sack of bones? Hah, no. Johnny boy, frankly, well, he just lacks the creativity. No, I‘m talking about Sam‘s _real_ father, the one whose blood flows through his veins. One hell of a guy, trust me. And he _really_ wants me to turn your ass into long pig.“ He can practically taste the fear in the air, delicious. Brady snaps his fingers and thoroughly enjoys Jess‘ answering flinch. Now that‘s respect. He missed that.

„Tyson, this .... this isn‘t funny anymore.... You- You‘re... drunk.“

Tyson Brady‘s face starts stretching impossibly wide. He still hasn‘t moved an inch, stature practically frozen in place. „You‘re right. It‘s _hilarious.“_ He doesn‘t need to move yet, it‘s what his father taught him during hunts. You don‘t need to spook the deer too often, you just need to do it _once_ , when your rifle is already held in position, ready to strike. He doesn‘t possess a rifle currently, but he‘s got very talented fingers. „You thinking either of us is gonna make it out of this house before I‘ve got the fire going. I don‘t half ass my assignments, not like our dear old _Sammy,_ “ the word tastes like acid on his tongue, „Especially not when I‘ve got 3 hours and you to kill, and so, so many different way to strip the skin from your flesh. No, we‘re going to have our fun first. Might as well enjoy the ride.“

Brady shrugs, momentarily distracted by the smell of chocolate chip cookies invading his senses, moving his body towards the warm oven. _Damn._ Whoever invented those deserved to get his dick sucked every day for the rest of eternity, because that looks _sinful._ He does so love the smell of cooked things, doesn‘t he. Like Hänsel in the witch‘s oven. Brady is still looking at the dough, fondly watching it crack open from the heat, leaking black intestines, as he says: „I‘ll make it worth your while, don‘t worry. I didn‘t exactly hear any complaints from the dear ol‘ Brady‘s, at least not-“

His throat makes a sickening wet _squelsh_ sound as a knife is driven clean through it, with surprising force. Neatly separating his vocal chords, exiting right below his adam‘s apple. When he looks down at the culprit, a red tinted edge stares back at him.

When Brady turns back around, Jess is still standing dangerously close, her right hand still outstretched, eyes huge and regretful. Damn, didn‘t even hear her sneak up on him. He‘s honestly quite proud, her stabbing technique is a little shabby, yes. Her body position could be a little sturdier, to provide enough force to neatly cut through his entire neck, if given the right weapon. But not bad. Brady tries to tell her exactly that, but his traitorous human vocal chords have decided to quit, so all that leaves his slow moving mouth is a whole lotta blood, leaking right down his chin and splattering his apron. Some bloody spit even ends up on Jess‘ cheeks, but she rudely doesn‘t return his oh so generously given compliments. Instead she just shrieks, harsh and loud, and dashes for the house door. Brady tries reaching for her wrist with slippery and uncoordinated fingers, but his reflexes are off due to the lack of blood and all that does is make him tumble forward. Well. That‘s inconvenient.

Brady is split between wanting to tear the kitchen knife out of his vertebrae as soon as possible and giving chase. With his by now brownish apron on, he kind of feels like a stressed housewife trying to decide which household chore to do next. Do the dishes or fold the laundry?

In the end his body decides for him when he hears the frantic rattling of a door handle, sluggishly stalking towards the sound. The hole in his neck leaves a bloody trail in his wake, like an R rated version of Hänsel and Gretel. Is he the witch or the boy currently? He can‘t decide.

When he can just about spot the mess of blonde locks, barely visible through his hazy vision, Jess is still trying to open the door he so carefully hexed closed, banging on the wood like that will do any good. He‘s about to tell her, tell her that she needn‘t worry, because he spent an hour before knocking on the door to make sure that the place is as magically locked in and sound proof as a dungeon. And wow, _rude_ , to just attack him like that. Is that how you treat guests in this century? This time all that comes out is a wet sort of gurgle sound and the sound of someone choking on their own blood. This is far less of a pleasant experience than he‘d thought, even with the added bonus of, you know, being a demon. Jess doesn‘t hear him though, too concerned with shouldering him out of the way to make her exit up the stairs. Oh, no. He knows this spiel.

„Chhh, RRrrgh...“ he desperately pleads, not even sure what he‘s trying to say. He feels like a child again, trying to hold onto a fish he caught in the Pegnitz with his fat, dirty fingers. It keeps weaseling its way out of his grasp, though. Ok, enough fun. This is getting embarrassing, for both of them „Hrrngg, rrrrrr ..... rrrrop, _rrrrrrrtop_!“

Brady outstretches his hand, metaphorically grabs her by the locks with an iron fist, and then just lets her dangle there in his invisible grip. The stupid idiot started crying while he was too busy painting the carpet to notice, and by now those cries have turned into ugly, uncontrollable sobs as she desperately tries to feel the back of her head for the force holding her in place. „ _Please,“_ she heaves. Oh, we‘re going for begging? How uncreative. Brady just rolls his eyes, fastens his grip, and then slams her head on the hard dark wood of the stairs as hard as possible. She doesn‘t make any more noises after that, besides the loud wet _crack_ of her scalp tearing open, and soon after it‘s finally, _finally_ quiet. The only sounds are Brady‘s out of breath uncontrolled panting and the thick juice of his meat suit falling down like waterfalls every time he tries to swallow. That‘s gonna be a bitch to heal. God damn it.

The thing about healing wounds is that one can‘t really magically wish them away so much as speed up the process of the body stitching itself back together. It involves a whole lot of willpower to mutilate one‘s own cell growth, though, kinda like taking the drawing book of your own body and scratching out the carefully drawn lines. Or just torching the whole damn book, as a more drastic measure. He‘s glad he put Brady in permanent time out early on, like forcing someone in a coma, because this whole thing would be a whole lot harder with resistance. It‘s why he never understood those demons that let their meat suits inhabitants drive shotgun, even if that particular form of mind torture is hard to come by. It‘s just such a hassle to bend the laws of physics and specifically human anatomy to your will when you‘ve got an audience.

Brady wishes the whole procedure would be as easy as snapping one‘s fingers, like ripping off a band aid, but it‘s actually more like realigning bones and stitching them back together. So when he has Jessica safely tied to a chair in the living room, and he can feel the sensitive muscle tissue in his neck begin anew, Brady gets to working. The whole kitchen is a mess and his body more so. He picks the more stylish option of stealing one of (Jess‘? Sam‘s?) the scarves from the entrance to let it soak up the excess blood and drool still currently spilling from his uncooperative mouth and the gash in his neck. Every time mitosis kicks in and a new set of cells are reproduced, pink and raw, he can feel more blood gushing out. That‘s the part they don‘t show you in those hospital dramas. Brady wonders what he must look like right now, covered in his own blood with his mouth hanging open because he accidentally severed some much needed muscle tissue while ganking a knife out of the back of his neck, mopping up his own bloody mess on the kitchen floor. Oh, if only Sam could see him right now, he wonders what his reaction would be. He‘s cleaning up _his_ kitchen right now, after all. One last act of kindness before he sets the whole place aflame. The whole tidying process thankfully doesn‘t take too much of his precious time, and by the time he‘s done his neck is as good as new. The only evidence of foul play is the poor, poor velvet scarf that is a deep dark red by now (and his exhausted energy). Brady decides to throw it in the trash, because yes he‘s not _that_ vain. Usually.

When Jess decides to slowly stir awake in her cramped up position, Brady just goes about neatly assembling the still hot cookies on a platter. Oof, do they smell good. It‘s a shame they won‘t be doing this more often, or at all. Maybe he‘ll bake with all his willing victims to be, just to have some edible souvenirs. Like a fucked up version of those bake off competition shows.

He can hear the ruckus increasing from the living room, the sound of a panicked human desperately trying to weasel themselves out of their fate. „Hey, you‘re awake! Good,“ he says all cheery, even though his voice still feels raw and fresh from before. He has to cough a couple times to even get his words out, and his voice sounds pathetically new born and high pitched. If that bitch messed up his voice..... „I hope you don‘t mind me going on without you, you were, well.... preoccupied, I suppose. And I really didn‘t want Sam to go home only to find such a mess made of his kitchen, so. You‘re welcome.“ Brady walks the short distance from the kitchen counter towards her displayed in the middle of the living room, glaring daggers at him. Rude. Brady puts his hands on his hips, looking positively like a stern mom out of some kid‘s worst nightmare. „I would offer you a cookie taste test, but then you decided to rudely interrupt me _right_ while I was talking to you and well. I don‘t really think that sort of behavior should be rewarded, do you?“

„Why are you doing this to me?“ Answering his question with a question of her own, interesting. Also annoying.

Brady huffs and starts pouting. „See, this is exactly why you don‘t interrupt people! I _was_ talking about that, remember? The whole ‚trying to make an honest man out of the Anti-Christ‘? Ring any bells?“ Jess still looks groggy and confused, so he waves her off. „Oh, doesn‘t matter. If it makes ya feel any better, just think of this as me stretching out my legs, nothing more. Most deaths don‘t really serve any greater cause.“ Hers does, though. She should be proud about that.

When he makes his way back towards the tray of cookies, a notepad and pen starts giving him an idea. Why not leave Sammy one last message? „Hey!“ He calls from across the flat, biting his lip and playing with the pen in his hand. „You want your last words to be more of a ‚love you‘ or a ‚missed you‘?“

„Let me go!“

Brady contemplates that. „Hmmm, somehow I think that wouldn‘t really fit with the cookie theme, you know? We don‘t wanna traumatize the guy _too_ much.“ Without waiting for her input, he starts writing the first sentence. _I made cookies for you._ Straight to the point. If he was 100% honest here the note should say ‚hey, I baked cookies with a demon, right before I pierced his vertebrae. Dig in!‘ Brady absentmindedly shoves a piece of a chocolate chip cookie down his throat only to be painfully reminded of just that, violently coughing up flakes covered in blood and spit. His throat feels like it‘s on fire, so he drinks huge amounts of water right from the tap. Not so healed after all, huh. And he was so excited to taste those.

Heated he stalks back towards his victim, letting his hands rest on either stool. His voice can barely hold back his anger when he says: „See, that‘s what happens when you pierce a guy through the throat,“ he seethes, some bloodied crusts landing on her cheeks, as his voice rattles like an old car engine. „Really messes with their esophagus. So, last words, what‘s it gonna be?“

Jess, the apparent power house that is Jessica Moore, just glares right back at him. „Let. Me. Go.“

Starting to sound like a broken record now and he‘s grown just about tired of the tape. So he backhands her across her cheek, not too hard, but with enough force to make her head swim. „Look me in the eye right now and tell me if you think there‘s any chance of you making it out of this encounter alive and unscathed. Especially after that little stunt you pulled.“ She looks at him then, really looks, and some part of his eye, some deep outer corner of his iris must finally convince her that all hope‘s lost. She just about deflates in on herself, slowly resigning herself to the depressive ever looming possibility of death. „You have the chance to choose your famous last words here, not many people can say that. Answer. The Question.“ Brady smiles. „Please.“

A pathetic small droplet of salty tears squeezes itself out of her tear ducts, and then finally, _finally_ she just barely whispers: „Write.... write that I love him.“ He thinks of denying her even that, but decides against it, smacking his lips together in an obnoxious way and sighing as he goes back towards the counter. ( _Now was that so hard?)_ It‘s like she‘s finally seen the end of the road, and has accepted it.

That‘s what he ends up writing, too. Along with a thrown in ‚Miss ya‘. It‘s not really _his_ choice of words, but hopefully these won‘t be the last word him and Sam Winchester will exchange. He briefly entertains the idea of writing his _own_ note, of what he would want Sam to know before the flames destroy everything. He knows exactly what he‘d write, too. _Look what you made me do._

After he‘s done he leaves the kitchen as it is and starts entering the second act, aka the fun part. „You know,“ he goes on, comfortably positioning himself a little to Jess‘ right, on their couch. Perfect position to watch her, but she won‘t be able to see him unless she really crams her neck. At the moment she‘s just staring down at her feet, tears silently falling from her cheeks. „I‘m really not the bad guy here in all of this. I‘m just the messenger. Sammy was the one who brought you up to the slaughter, not me. I‘m just doing my job.“

Jessica laughs, bitter and wet. „Oh, really?“

„Yes. Really.“ Brady is starting to get annoyed by her back chatter, actually, so he once again extends his open hands outwards. Problem is, there are so many internal organs to choose from, and he‘s looking for something painful but not _too_ painful and also not too below the surface that the popping of veins would be very visible. Sort of like entrance level torture. He ends up picking the liver, because it‘s just right there and so inviting. Brady grabs a hold of that thick human organ and then _squeezes._ Really digs his nails and digits in there, for just a minute, nothing more than maybe 70 seconds. It‘s not violent enough to burst any blood vessels, but the resulting loud howl feels incredibly satisfying. „I don‘t appreciate cheeky attitude, Miss. And, do you feel that?“ He squeezes again, for good measure. Jess whimpers. „That‘s your liver. Quite the heavy exemplar you got there. Lots of blood tissue. How long do you think it would take for you to bleed to death if I squeezed just a _little_ harder?“

„Please I‘m sorry please don‘t,“ Jess cries out, all at once. Huh. Even the most courageous of humans lose their attitude at the threat of torture. „What _are_ you? What do you want from me?“

„You? Nothing. A delightful afternoon.“ Wow, this couch feels nice. Brady can feel himself practically sink into it. „As for the question about little ol‘ me, it‘s not really important. Connoisseur of the fine arts, apprentice, whatever. What‘s more important is what, exactly, is Sam Winchester? Hmm? You ever thought about that?“ The only answer he gets is silence, so he decides he might as well get this off his chest. „You see, Sam is quite important where I come from. Might even go so far and call him royalty. Poor guy doesn‘t know that yet, though. The only studies I had in college were how to get him to unleash his true potential, to just really _let loose_ and wreak a little havoc. But time and time again, Sammy wouldn‘t stray from the road, not even with some... incentive. What would you do if you were me?“

„I don‘t know, maybe leave him _the fuck_ alone,“ Jess scoffs, glaring at him sideways. Brady smiles. If only he could.

„Hah, no. Not after I invested all my time and money in this fight, nope. If a dog doesn‘t like the food you dangle in front of his face, might as well go and change the recipe. Upgrade the treats. And you, honey, you‘re the treat. And your death will be the final straw.“

„No,“ the girl says, even through the still throbbing pain in her abdomen. That takes some guts (hah). „So, all my life amounts to is being a pawn in _your_ game? No, no way. No thanks. I won‘t do that to Sam, or myself. Find someone else to use.“

Brady grins, chooses the thyroid gland this time. Payback‘s a bitch and Jess starts wheezing, desperately trying to force air in through uncooperative lungs. Funny. You take away one puzzle piece and suddenly the whole system shuts down. „I know, I know,“ he replies, because he truly sympathizes with her, „This whole thing is quite sexist. Getting maimed for Sam to shed some manly tears? That just undermines your whole existence. But orders are orders and I‘m afraid my superior is just a tad bit .... conservative.“

„Your superior is an ass-“ He doesn‘t let her finish that sentence, standing up from his comfortable position to stand before her like a deathly shadow. The poor wiggly piece of flesh cries abuse at his grip, but he won‘t let up until she‘s well and truly shut up. The pained expression she has on her face right now is priceless, like she would do anything to make the flames in her upper throat to go away.

„Careful. That‘s my teacher you‘re talking about. My father. The one who led me into this world, a long time before you were even born, so you‘d better show some damn _respect._ “ Brady finally lets her breathe again, after one minute too many. „I‘ve tried every trick in the book, believe me. I had my vision of how this would go down, and it didn‘t involve me getting my hands dirty like this. _I_ didn‘t want this, but Sam picked and chose wrong. He was the one who left me high and dry in the middle of the night!“ ( _Careful, Brady. Really starting to sound like a hurt ex wife here._ ) „That day in the café, you know what he did? Left the cause. What else am I supposed to do but to drag him back?“

There‘s a weird sort of revelation on Jess‘ sweaty face, make up long washed away by tears. She looks beautiful like this, on the brink of death. „You‘re _him,_ aren‘t you?“ she asks, hatred clear in her voice. He has no idea who this _him_ is. „The one that messed Sam up so much. Hah, figures. He always made it seem like it was all his fault, like he was tainted somehow, but in reality it was all you, wasn‘t it? Wasn‘t it? Anyone with common sense could tell that what you had was abusive, and Sam sure as hell wasn‘t the one manipulating _you_. Do you have any idea how long it took for him to even _talk_ about it? _Halloween_?! You made him doubt his own mind, violated his body! _Drugged_ him!“

Brady sighs wistfully. „Yeah,“ he mutters, smiling, „Good times.“

Jess just looks at him like he grew a second head. He might. „You ..... Wow.“ She starts laughing suddenly, loud shrill and unhinged. It‘s a beautiful sound. „Figures. I mean, Jesus, you sound like an angry ex that‘s mad that Sam moved on. What, you got your heart broken? Tough luck. That doesn‘t give you the right to hurt others!“

Okay, that hit a little too close to home, he must admit. He doesn‘t like this change of topic, he doesn‘t like it at all. „Watch it,“ Brady grits out through clenched teeth.

Jess just laughs louder, leaning towards him with the minimal amount of room for movement that she has. „Or what? You‘ll kill me? I‘m already dead, remember? You told me that.“

„Mayhaps,“ he says, suddenly feeling a little out of his league. „But I could make the way there a hell of a lot more painful for you. I could make Sam _watch._ “

There‘s a flash of fear in her eyes, just for a moment, but as soon as it appears it flickers out. Replaced instead with a definitive feral sort of look, the way that a dead woman looks like with nothing left to lose. „No, I won‘t let you. I won‘t let you use me like that.“ Maybe a little bit of denial too.

His head is titled as he regards the remarkable speciwoman in front of him. He respects her, he really does. Out of all the possible pieces of tail to chase, this one might have been the best one. Good job, Sammy. „You won‘t have a choice, sugar. I‘m gonna pin you to the ceiling one way or another.“ He can tell that she doesn‘t really know the meaning of that, must probably think it‘s some sort of metaphor, when in reality it‘s actually quite literal. She still sees him as a human, though.

That feral stance is back, Jess‘ eyes grow darker by the minute. He has the sudden thought of her making quite a good witch. In his world that‘s high praise. „You‘re pathetic, you know that? Just a pathetic loser jealous that his ex moved on and left him to rot!“ Jess‘ voice raises a couple octaves, edged on by the fact that Brady has started grinding his teeth together again. „Sam is better than you will ever be, and boy are you bitter about that. There‘s no amount of prodding or psychological manipulation that will make him stow down on your level, not even to meet you halfway!“

„...You sure about that?“ ( _You sure you wanna anger me like this? You ain‘t seen nothing yet._ )

„Yes, I‘m sure. Because Sam loves me, and I love him, and guess what? You‘re just a sad lonely _loser_!“ Jess is yelling by now, throwing every insult she can come up with in his face. „You go on and on about your _teacher_ and your _mission_ , why? So little Brady can make himself feel importa- urgghh“ He didn‘t even notice he started clenching his fist again, this time it‘s clenching her collarbone. Satan forbid, the searing pain doesn‘t seem to stop her, though, just makes her spit out jabs at him through clenched teeth more. „Go ahead and torture me if that makes you feel better. But for fuck‘s sake, stop kidding yourself! There is no holy quest, no bullshit about Sam‘s _darker nature,_ there‘s only Brady and the fact that Brady feels _empty!_ And _small_ and _abandoned_ and-“

„Stop. Stop it.“ ( _Please._ )

„ _lonely_! You‘re nothing but a petty _boy_ who‘s angry his favorite sandbox is taken! Trying to make Sam or your father love you! I might die but at least I get to make the choice not to be as _pathetic_ as yo-“

„I SAID **STOP**!“

 _Crack._ The sound of bound flesh, wood hitting the wall is ear splitting, and it takes a while for Brady to realize that Jess is no longer sitting in front of him. Her petite stature instead is slumped in a heap of splintered wood next to the wall. Blank, lifeless eyes stare deep into him, accusing even now. That had been her neck he‘d heard, that crack. Brady‘s right hand is still outstretched, like he just slapped someone in the face. Hadn‘t even realized he‘d struck the killing blow.

„No... _no_ ,“ he exhales, frantically making his way toward the body but to no avail. Jessica Moore‘s soul has left the building, well before her time. He‘d wanted to have burned her _alive._

_Shit!_

Brady gently sweeps a strand of hair away from her face and dabs at the small amount of blood gathering under her hairline. „Why would you anger me like that, woman? Do you have no self preservation?“ A thought occurs in his mind, an interesting one. „Unless... did you _want_ me to kill you like this? Quick and relatively painless compared to long and drawn out?“ Brady takes Jess‘ face in his hands, regarding her features with a certain respect he doesn‘t show a lot of humans. She‘s cold to the touch. „You little _whore_ , did you trick me? Huh? Into losing control, so you‘d get to bail before the big finale?“ Brady lets go of the dead meat before him, letting it loudly hit the floor, and for the first time in a long time, he starts laughing. Practically _howling_. He really let himself get outsmarted by a human.

„Lesser of two evils, huh?“ He has to wipe laugh tears away from his eyes. „You _knew_ , knew I wasn‘t gonna let you live and yet you accepted that. And when it came right down to it, made the hard choice. My my my, such cynicism. Most humans at least believe in some sort of rescue, but not you, oh no. What, didn‘t think Sam would reach you in time? Or did you not want that? I have to say, I can understand that. I can _respect_ that.“ Brady stares at the woman that had been alive just 5 minutes earlier before him, looks at the crinkles in her dress and the splinters in her hair. The bags under her eyes, followed by a trail of tears. _You win._

„You‘re wrong, though, at least in one aspect. See, I don‘t need you to necessarily be _alive_ to light Sam‘s match. I‘m nothing if not an opportunist, and this? An easily fixable error.“ He grins, lightly tapping the sack of meat with his boot. „Seems like you‘ll be part of the big crescendo after all, Jess, whether you like it or not.“

 

\--

 

It really doesn‘t end up mattering, after all. Brady watches the whole thing unfold from a safe distance, waiting for that moment where a black impala appears in his line of sight. He doesn‘t have to wait long. Jess‘ body is slowly decaying on the ceiling, at just the right angle. Her guts just waiting to spill out.

When Sam Winchester exits the vehicle, he is looking positively awakened. There‘s no slugging to his walk anymore, no longer hunched in on himself. This Sam finally looks _alive_ again, making Brady snicker. _You really thought you were done with the life. Turns out the life‘s not done with you._

After Dean and Sam have presumably said their goodbyes (he could listen in on their little chit chat, but does he care?), the latter makes his way towards his own little personal pyre. He looks happy. Brady for one can‘t wait to yank blindfold off his eyes. Dean decides to linger for a moment more, because of course he does. Brady hasn‘t met the dude once, and he can already tell what kind of soldier he is. The obedient blunt little instrument. Brady can relate.

He sees the next minutes through Jess‘ eyes, conveniently positioned right over her‘s and Sam‘s queen sized bed. God, he wishes she were alive right now, just to feel her desperation. _Look at him, Jess. Look at what Sam did to you._

Brady watches his king in satisfaction, trying some of those cookies. Maybe some of the blood splatter got sprinkled on there, from when Jess stabbed him. He really hopes it did, hopes it makes them taste so much sweeter. When Sam decides to flop himself onto their shitty mattress, Brady decides to release some of those guts his sheer willpower are holding in. The wound makes a wet sound as he lets it tear open, branding Sam‘s face. He always thought Sam looked good in red. Deliciously sinful, even.

When Sam Winchester opens those clear green eyes and looks at the love of his life, pinned to the ceiling, what (or rather who) he‘s really looking at is Brady, grinning from all the way in the bushes next to their house. _Hey, Sammy_ , he wants to say. _Don‘t I look beautiful?_ Sam widens his eyes in near hysterically comedic fashion, blindfold finally off. They're dark, darker than Brady's even seen them. He likes to imagine that particular question of nature vs nurture has been answered in his favor.

Sam screams, loud and raspy. Brady smiles.

He lights the match.

 


End file.
